hello. I'm in an author's note mood, so hi. I'm writing this as Clove's death in her point of view so i better grab some tissues or something ahead of time because this fanfic will kill me as much as it kills her. Yeah, bad joke. Don't kill me. Enjoy!

Flashback

Clove?

My name sounded good in his mouth, better than I thought it would be.

Yeah, you idiot. That's my name, I teased. He rolls his eyes at me.

Don't be silly, clovey. That's not your name.

Clovey?

Yeah, he smirked at me. Don't you love that nickname.

The smirk had killed me; melted my heart and sent butterflies into my stomach. But I ignored them.

14-year-old Cato crossed his arms and looked at me pointedly for a response.

Clovey? So orignal, I taunt, finding my voice after being momentarily flustered.

Shut up. It's more orignal than anything you could come up with, Mini-Cato said. He was playing of course. He also teased me when I was little.

My own 12-year-old self crossed my arms, and looked up at him. That's not fair.

Life's not fair.

You love that statement.

Nothing's wrong with love, Clovey.

Inspiring.

He tossed his head to the side, as if trying to flip the hair he didn't have. Of course it is. Because I said it.

I rolled my eyes, suppressing a smile. You're the toughest idiot I've ever met.

Yeah, well, love you too, Clovey. He was joking, I could tell. By the way he said it. But the words still made my face heat up and my stomach do summersaults. They it was all I was thinking about the rest of the day, listening to them in my head on repeat.

Love you too, Clovey.

Present.

It was agony. Pure agony, in one sentence.

I could see The Girl On Fire and District Eleven turn as the bushes part and rustle, and they both take off and run. Run away from the trouble.

I let out a weak groan of pain. My head is bashed in. I'm dying. The pain is so unbearable. My limbs; I can't move them. I'm such a useless puddle of flesh in this grass. So useless.

Footsteps pound towards me in a rhythmic beat, like a heartbeat.

Cato skids to a stop next to me and drops to his knees, looking at my weak, dying, pathetic form in pure horror. "Clove-"

"Cato," I manage weakly. If I have to go. The last thing I want to be saying is his name. "It-It hurts." I sound so pathetic to my own ears. Like a whimpering dog.

I can see the tears that are springing into Cato's eyes, but I don't see them at the same time. I feel like my senses are disappearing one by one, as my soul detaches itself from my body to go to the great beyond.

Cato takes my hand, but I don't feel it. I'm merely watching it from outside.

There are a million words I want to say to him.

I like you! I-I love you! Do you love me? Do you want me? I'm dying, I'm dying, Cato. I still want you. I still love you.

My throat doesn't work, I can't control my own body. The pain is fading. Sweet relief.

"Clove," Cato says, nearly choking on the words as he gives my hand a squeeze. "Please, stay."

"I-" I pause, drawing in a rattling, failing breath. But I can't breathe. "Love-" My voice is so small, so quiet. Can he even hear me? "You."

"You'll make it through." I hate that pained look in his eyes. "You'll make it through. Clove, Clove. Stay with me."

I dont hear his voice from my own ears. I hear them from the outside.

I can't nod. I can't say anything. I can't breathe. My heart isn't beating. I'm dying-I'm dead.

"I love you," Cato murmurs, choking on the words as he squeezes my dead hand.

I cant hear him. I only hear my cannon.

Love you too, Clovey.

I love you.

A million words couldn't sum up how much I love him too.

Now it's too late to tell him.

So all I can do is welcome death with open arms.