It isn't until I start to get the phone calls that I realize just how serious the trouble is that comes with the video that played on the feeds. We're used to being in the public eye, so after the clip of me leaping onto Peeta in the square caught fire and spread through the districts, we do our best to ignore it. It's hardly gossip, after all. We figure it will cover the feeds for a day, or two tops. And we are right.

But then the phone starts to ring. I expect reporters from the Capitol wanting some kind of comment or an exclusive interview. A hundred different scenarios run through my head. Probably every scenario, likely or not, except the truth. Because the truth is, it is Gale on the other end of the line. And that's something I'm not prepared for.

The first time, I drop the phone in shock. I recognize his voice immediately; how could I not? I grew up with that voice, always bossing me around or chastising my skill, or – once in a rare while – complementing my skill. I know that voice from a thousand miles away. Once I get over the shock, I pick up the phone, but I immediately drop it down on the receiver. I'm not ready for whatever he has to say, not when the timing of his call is so coincidental.

He calls again. And again. He keeps calling, in fact, until I can no longer stand the shrill ringing reverberating through the house. I break my silence and ask him what he wants. He says he wants to meet, and I laugh off the suggestion. Not thinking he could possibly be serious. But he is. He apologizes about the way my visit went when I showed up in Two and asks if we can try again. Funny, how he doesn't mention his run in with Haymitch at the door of our rooms in the Capitol around the New Year. In fact, he doesn't say much of anything of substance at all.

All he says, all he repeats, is that he wants to see me. He can't seem to get out what he wants to say over the phone, but acts as if somehow seeing me will miraculously bring the words to light. I tell him I don't think it's such a good idea. That I don't think I'm ready to see him just yet. I question his timing, but not aloud. I say a lot, but a lot I still keep buried deep down where it's safe.

He understands, or so he says. He asks me to think about it, please. Then I hang up, and I think the conversation wasn't too bad. That I have survived it, and it hasn't killed me. But it isn't enough for Gale. Maybe isn't enough. The promise to think about it isn't enough. He continues to call, to pressure, and I dread picking it up. Because I know what he'll say, and because he becomes a little more persistent with each passing call.

I try to ignore it. I file it away as something I don't want to deal with. It's a problem for the distant future, but the future nonetheless. If I don't give it attention, I can't give it power. And I don't want to give it – him, our friendship, whatever might still exist between us – power. Not now. Not when I'm finally finding the balance in my life. Not when things are finally going well.

"Just stop," I tell him, shouting through the phone, when I reach my breaking point one afternoon. "I can't do this, Gale. I know I said I'd try. And this has been me trying. But this is it. This is all I can do. And even this is too much. So please, if you care at all, stop calling."

I hang up. I wait for the phone to ring again. I sit on the edge of the couch all day, staring at the phone on the end table. Waiting for it to ring while I hold my breath. It doesn't, but it doesn't make me breathe any easier. It's only when Peeta gets home, late, that I allow myself to believe that he's honoring my wish and leaving me be. Maybe Peeta is still right. Maybe, one day, far down the road, we will find a way to reconcile. But I know it won't be like this. This pressure he's been putting on me, it will only make my claws come out, and it will only end in anger for both of us.

I file it away in the back of my mind. The clip no longer runs on the fed as the people of the Capitol have much more important things to fill their lives with. Peeta and I never should have made the feeds in the first place. It takes a little bit of time, but our lives finally return to normal.

At least for a few days. When Haymitch rings the front doorbell for our weekly dinner, I leave Peeta in the kitchen to go answer it. But when I open the door, it isn't Haymitch waiting on the front steps. It's Gale. And my whole world shatters into a thousand pieces as all the different parts of my life, of my heart and soul, collide.