A/N: New chapter! Thank you for everyone who's reviewed my story so far. I really appreciate all of your feedback. :] Thank you so much, and please keep reading and reviewing! Any constructive criticism is welcome.

My brain seems to go dysfunctional for a moment. I just stand there, dumbfounded, as the shock paralyzes me from head to toe. But then I recover enough to stammer in denial.

"N-no," I say. Peeta, dead? "No."

Haymitch just looks at me with a strange mixture of somber pity. "I'm sorry," he says.

"No," I whisper again, backing away slowly, cautiously, like I would if I didn't want to scare an animal away. I bump into the door, and only one small, choked sound escapes me before I throw it open and bolt.

I race desperately through the hovercraft, unseeing, as the tears begin to blind me. I push past everyone I encounter, not even bothering to apologize. Normally I would think this incredibly rude, but right now I don't care. I just have to get out of here. Now. Already I'm sobbing, and I haven't even reached my room yet. I can feel a dozen pairs of eyes trained on my flushed, tear-streaked face as I flee down the corridor.

"Catnip!" Gale shouts from behind me. I glace back and see him running to catch up with me, his form blurry through my tears.

"Just leave me alone, Gale!" I scream. The words choke in my throat on the way out and transform into a sob. Just keep going, I tell myself. Almost there.

When I reach my door I wrench it open and hurl myself inside. Then I slam the door behind me, and the sound echoes through the hall. I bolt the door securely so no one will come bother me.

Now that I'm alone I let myself go completely. A river of tears flows freely down my cheeks. My sobs violently shake my entire body and turn my breaths into frantic gasps. I barely make it to my bed before I collapse into a quaking heap. Through all of my trauma I can only form one thought:

Peeta is dead.

The realization hits me again and again with a force that drives me to my knees, and I bury my head into the blankets, trying to hide from reality. But no matter how hard I try the haunting truth finds me and forces me to acknowledge it.

Peeta is dead.

A thousand memories flash before my vision. A young boy in the rain, tossing a loaf of bread to a starving girl. A dazzling god-tribute in a chariot, with bright flames framing his perfect face. A deathly pale victim of the Games, muttering feverishly in his sleep. A smiling victor, looking clean and healthy and beautiful. An artist, with a deep, curious look of concentration in his eyes as his pencil sweeps across the page. A heartbroken fiancé, gazing sadly down at a sleeping girl and an injured boy.

He's dead. Peeta is dead.

An involuntary cry slips from my lips--a melancholy wail filled with unbearable grief. Pain washes over me like a tidal wave, dragging me under the surface, down into the endless deep. I let it take me, and lose myself in the dark.

For a lifetime, it seems, I am lost in some sort of waking slumber. The pain has dulled to a continuous throbbing ache in my chest, a constant reminder of what I have lost.

Peeta.

My eyes are weak and red from crying. My breath comes in shuddering gasps. And still, even now, an occasional tear leaks out of my sore eyes, burning up my cheeks, and whimpers escape from my lips periodically.

I lie there in my own world of sorrow for days, weeks, months, for all I know. Sometimes they come banging on my door, begging me to come out, just eat a little! You can't stay in there forever and starve! But I ignore them. Once, as if in a dream, I heard voices outside my door.

"Don't give that to her, it'll just make it worse!"

"Better to do it now when she's grieving. Get it over with. I promised him I'd give it to her. And that's what I'm doing."

And then an envelope appeared under the crack in my door.

"I still don't think it's a good idea," said the first voice.

"Too bad it's not for you to decide."

And then the sound of footsteps retreating back down the hall.

I didn't go see what it was for a long time. But when I finally did, I tore open the envelope hungrily. Because it was from him. It was in his own neat penmanship that the words "For Katniss" were carefully written on the front. I recognized the letter a few lines into it. It was one of the letters that we were supposed to write before the Quell to our family members, to be delivered after we were dead. I had never written mine, but Peeta had written his. And there, in my hands, were Peeta's last words to me.

Katniss—

I won't dwell on what you already know: I'm dead.

I know this is hard for you, but you've got to accept it and move on. Please don't let this weigh you down for the rest of your life. Don't be afraid to go on living without me. I promise, it's not an insult to my memory. Just know this: as long as you're happy, I'm happy. So live. Be with Gale. It's what you want. I know you love him. You don't have to feel guilty about it. Just be happy. Please. For me.

I'll save you a spot in heaven, if that's where I'm going.

I love you. Forever.

Peeta

And then my tears fell onto the paper, smearing and blotting the words of Peeta's final goodbye, and I slipped back into the black.

When I finally wake up—for real—my eyes are dry. I sit up and take a deep breath, smooth my disheveled hair. I sit there for a long time, staring into the nothingness around me. Goodbye, Peeta, I whisper. I love you. I miss you. Goodbye… I let the words float through the silence, softly, like the way Peeta used to stroke my hair. Then they fade slowly away, dissolving into the grief-sodden air. And I gently, ever so gently, release my tight grip in the part of my heart where I have been keeping Peeta for all this time. Let him go, once and for all.

Or so I think.

I rise from the bed slowly, and my limbs shake under my weight. I feel weak, empty. I just stand there, confused and unsure of what to do. Gazing about the room, I try to enlighten myself, but I can't find anything of importance. Everything seems flat and grey; meaningless.

But no. There is meaning. I do have a purpose. I am the Mockingjay. My purpose is to uphold the rebellion. Drive it to victory. Ensure, finally, the freedom of the people of Panem. It's what Peeta would want. I feel a twinge of pain when I think that he will not be there to witness it with me. But I will fight, nonetheless. For Panem. For the ones I love.

For you, Peeta, I think.

I take Peeta's letter and fold it up carefully. Then I place it in my pocket. As I do so my fingers search automatically to find Peeta's pearl, to feel its smooth, reassuring surface. But instead they brush only the inner fabric of my pocket. I freeze, searching through my pockets again. Where is it? Frantically I run back to the bed, pulling up blankets and pillows, my eyes desperately sweeping the floor for the shining silver sphere. Finally I find it in the drawer of my nightstand, tucked securely away in the folds of a shred of fabric. Relief floods through me, and I slip it safely into my pocket with the letter. My fingers close around its familiar, comforting shape. And one last tear slides silently down my cheek.

But after a moment I wipe it away. I am done with tears. I have to be strong. I suck in a deep breath. Close my eyes for just a moment. And remember his perfect face, glowing and happy and alive. Breathe in his familiar scent, baking bread and just a whiff of cinnamon. Hear his soft, sweet voice caress me like a gentle breeze. Feel his strong arms wrapped firmly around me, protecting me from my nightmares.

I will fight, Peeta, I think. For you.

And then I take a deep, steadying breath, and open the door.