The little bit of hope Katniss and Peeta's romance has come to symbolize is gone. Not in the district of course, but inside me. Because I know now that it was fabricated. Created for the Games. There was no triumph over the Capitol. No "love conquers all". There's just two broken children who survived the atrocity of the Hunger Games.

Here I was thinking that their relationship was the one good thing that had come from the Games, when it's very clear that nothing of worth will ever amount from this event. Peeta was right. He was better off before, when he didn't have a taste of Katniss' affections. In retrospect, it seems so obvious. Everything was just too perfect. That Peeta, who was a total stranger to Katniss, would gain his fellow tribute's affections in a matter of days. That their relationship would spark the rule change. I should have seen it coming.

Now it is I who suffers under the burden of a secret. Sometimes, someone catches me off guard and it almost slips out. But I always recover the best I can because I intend to keep my promise this time around. And so it simmers, day by day, just waiting for the perfect moment of weakness to escape.

Even though the leaves have reached the peak of their turning and their colors are striking against the cerulean sky, autumn seems to have lost its splendor. I can't get the image of Peeta slogging through this new life of lies out of my head. Why him? Why, out of all the people in Twelve, in Panem, was Peeta Mellark selected to undergo this painful journey.

October is born amidst an early frost. The district knows what that means. A freezing winter. Large snowfalls. In the past, this meant starvation and death. A long winter was a fatal one in many cases. But thanks to the Parcel Days we're entitled to as a result of Katniss and Peeta's surviving the Games, there's a shadow of possibility that we'll make it to spring.

With the onset of cold weather brings preparations for the Victory Tour. This means high ranking Capitol officials with their assistants and their assistants invade Twelve to stir up the Games again. Peeta needs to be instructed on everything, apparently. What it's like in each of the other districts, how to hold himself, how to address the mayor. Even though Peeta isn't living with us, we still get a shocking amount of Capitol people showing up in the bakery. It becomes clear that the Mellark bakery is something of a tourist location in the Capitol.

They enter flamboyantly, squealing and snapping pictures, which would be fine I suppose if they didn't scare customers off.

"Sisal's going to be simply green-eyed when she finds out we got to see this," a woman says one afternoon, her wig quivering with what I assume is ecstasy.

"Shhh, don't go parading it around," her friend giggles. "We're here on business remember?"

"Yeah, right. Like you're not going to tell every person you can get to hold still long enough."

"I still want to frame a slice of this bread. It's just so rustic. I think the tough consistency really represents the tough life they have here."

Tough consistency? Peeta's bread isn't tough and neither is mine. We might be working with compromised ingredients most of the time, but the recipe has been in the family for decades. Thick, flaky crust, buttery soft insides. If this is tough, then their Capitol bread must melt in their mouths. I don't know whether to be jealous or annoyed.

They have no problem paying for bakery goods and we're not in need of money anyway, but as they purchase box upon box of baked items, I can't help thinking that Twelve is in greater need of the food. Besides, I'm having to spend much longer hours in the kitchen replenishing the depleted pastries.

As it turns out, though, I'm not the only one irritated with their loitering.

"If one more of those pretentious, gawking lunatics waltzes in through here, I might just murder them," my wife says one evening, violently sweeping the mud and coal dust out the door.

"It's sickening," I agree. "The whole lot."

"First they take my son and tried to slaughter him, now they act like he's some big celebrity because he won."

Did he win? Because the way things have shaken out, winning isn't the word that's jumping to mind.

My silence provokes her to look more closely at my face. "Good lord, what's bothering you?"

"Just a long day," I lie. If I told her what was really ruffling my feathers, I'd break my promise to Peeta.

"They take a lot of patience, don't they?" Who? Oh, right. She's still talking about the Capitol people. My wife gives the broom a final shake for good measure, then leans it against the wall. "And I'm tired of cleaning up after them."

"Me too." And that is the complete truth. Not just what they track in on the floors, but the mess they've left in the aftermath of the Games. The battered mess of a son that they gave back to me. I'm tired of looking at how they've hurt him.

And Katniss, too. I'm not angry with her, necessarily, but I'm glad she hasn't shown up here looking to trade in awhile. I doubt I could handle it. Peeta's keeping her well-stocked with bread, though. At least, he always takes a few extra loaves when he goes home. That hurts, too. After all she's done, some part of him is still looking out for her.

You can't tell anyone. Not my mother or my brothers- no one. If the Capitol finds out, I don't know what they'll do to Katniss.

The words haven't stopped playing in my mind since he uttered them. Peeta, who didn't need a reason to protect Katniss, who's suffering from something much worse than a mere broken heart, is still looking out for the girl who's caused him so much pain.

I had my heart broken, sure. But with Katniss' mother, I never stood a chance. It was unrequited love, but nothing more. Peeta was with Katniss. She kissed him, proclaimed her love for him in front of the country. She was willing to sacrifice herself to save him. She wove a story, but for no reason other than to save herself. Peeta is convinced she still cares about him in some way, but how can he be sure? It was all a lie. Lies and falsities. Is that what our country, our way of life, is built upon now?

It's an overwhelming question. One that burrows into some far-corner of my brain and refuses to go away. So I let it stay there, nursing it when I have a quiet moment. Maybe someday, I'll have an answer.

But perhaps more pressing, is the realization that the Victory Tour is drawing upon us with every second. The act will start up again. Instead of pondering philosophical concepts, I should be worried about Peeta. How long can he play lovers with Katniss and keep his sanity? How long he can keep up this game?