True that I saw her hair like the branch of a tree - A willow dancing on air before covering me

Chestnut colored hair pulled back into an elegant braid, olive skin made vibrant by the sun. The odd patches where the skin grafts come together all blend in, making her look whole again. Her eyes are like wells of starlight, pulling me in and leaving me frozen.

Katniss is smiling, something that would have been rare to see before these last couple weeks. I find my lips twitching up in turn from where I stand on my porch across the street. She doesn't seem to see me, but there is a certain lightness in her step that I haven't seen before.

Maybe because we are finally free.

My eyes follow her as she skips up the stairs, a loud creak coming from the old planks of her porch. She adjusts her game bag on her shoulder and her hand is just pushing down on the door handle when she suddenly tenses. She turns, and our eyes meet.

Without any conscious thought, I find myself raising my hand and twitching it in an awkward wave.

I only returned a month ago and she still doesn't seem to know how to cross the barrier between us that is seemingly impossible to traverse safely. I've tried myself several times, leaving her bread in the mornings, planting flowers in front of her house. And yet she still evades me.

This is the first time she has really looked ever since I came back. I find myself getting lost in the endless silver void of her eyes. And that warmth in my chest floods in, the one that has haunted me for so long. I am drowning in it.

I think it is love. All it takes is her gentle, almost hesitant wave back for me to know it's true.

Under cotton and calicos over canopy dapple long ago - True that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me

Dr. Aurelius recommended that we form routines. One of my first ones to develop was calling Prim every day after dinner. So far it's been the easiest one to maintain, as she always has so much energy to give me.

It's refreshing considering how numb I find myself feeling by evening.

Today is one of the harder days, where I find myself drifting between memories of the past. Specifically of Peeta, who has been close and yet impossibly far since his hijacking. I find myself relieved when I pick up the phone and immediately upon dialing Prim begins chattering to me. I can't keep my signature scowl on for long.

"Katniss! You'll never believe what happened today. At school we worked on applying sutures and the teacher used me as an example, and Mom let me help at the hospital, and-"

"Hey there, Little Duck." My laugh is light and airy, surprising both of us. I can practically see her smile when she responds.

"Quack."

"Primrose, who are you talking to? We have plans with the Hawthornes, remember?"

Mom. A tense silence ensues, and for once Prim fumbles for a response. I don't think they wanted me to know that they are still so close with Gale's family.

They might have been quick to forgive him for helping design the bombs that almost killed Prim, but I cannot find it in myself to do so. It was alright in the end, but it still stings like a bitter betrayal. Which is fitting, considering how much he changed during the Rebellion.

"Katniss-"

"It's okay, Primrose. Have fun; don't worry about me. I - um- already had plans anyway. I'll call you tomorrow after dinner." The words rush out of me, almost without permission. I do not want to let her go, but if I don't I fear that I will find myself in a painful conversation with my mother.

"Okay. Tell Peeta I say hi. And if you see Buttercup, will you please give him a treat?" Her voice comes out strained, and I grimace knowing that Mom is going to want an explanation.

"Uh, yeah. Of course. Love you, bye." I do not let the call go on any longer, slamming the receiver down as quickly as possible. I have to fist my palms to keep myself from biting my nails for relief.

Peeta. I have not talked to him since he got back, not really. A few waves and tentative hellos, but never so much as small talk. Thoughts of him consume me during the day but I find myself avoiding having to interact with him. All because whatever easy banter we once had died along with a part of me that last night of the Quarter Quell. It is easier to pretend that nothing has changed when I do not face it.

And yet, I still find myself waking and reaching for him across cold sheets. I don't think I've ever felt so alone in years.

That the sound of the saw must be known by the tree - Must be felled for to fight the cold

The episodes aren't nearly so common now compared to what they had been during the Capitol siege. But I still find myself consumed by images that I know to be not real when I let my guard down.

The flashbacks are the main excuse I give myself for not talking to Katniss. Because even though I never feel the urge to kill her anymore, I don't think that I can bear to have her see me like that. The eyes that look back at me in the mirror scare me, so I can only imagine how she would react.

Mostly because I simply cannot predict what she would do. But I hope it would be like that kiss in the sewers.

Since I struggle so to approach her in person, I give her little gifts instead. Bread every morning, sometimes a flower or two, little knickknacks. Sometimes I even treat myself by watching her open the door from my window. She always gets a soft smile but I duck behind the curtains before she can see me watching her.

I never see her approach my house, but somehow I will find little parcels of meat sitting in ice on the porch. They are welcome surprises, even if we get regular deliveries of groceries from the train. After all, I have developed a taste for fresh squirrel.

Dr. Aurelius tells me to try not to disturb her routines too often. But he also presses the issue of our… distance.

It's been almost 2 months now. So I force myself to open the dusty family recipe book that has sat unneeded in the pantry since my father passed it on to me for safe keeping. I have avoided it since my return, as I find that if I let it it will leave me in a trance.

There are so many recipes that I don't remember how to make. I find myself pulling out ingredients, but not knowing where to even start. One of the only things I can make now is simple rye bread. And yet I avoid the recipes as though they will bring the wrath of the ghosts of 12 upon me. But I need them for what I want to make today.

Cheese buns. She loves them; she makes a cute little moan every time she bites into one-

I miss getting to see her, being able to bask in her presence. Or rather, whatever version exists in this peaceful state of purgatory. She was always quiet, but the silence between us is so loud that I cannot hear anything else.

This is my attempt to breach the gap, an olive branch. To prove to her that not all of me is gone, that I have not forgotten her. And fine, maybe to prove it to myself, too.

Spring is turning into summer, and when I open the front door I am hit by the warmth of a sunny day. Today will be a good day, I can feel it. Brushing a hand through my hair, I look down at the basket of cheese buns in my hands and the little note that I left her inside.

I invited Haymitch to dinner if you want to come.

It is technically a lie considering that I haven't asked Haymitch anything, but I'll drag him to my house kicking and screaming if it means she'll come.

After I cross the gravel path between our houses, I remember the creaky plank on her porch and carefully avoid it. It's second nature at this point to do things that will keep her from seeing me drop off her bread. For weeks I have held out, not wanting to be the one to change our status quo.

I set the basket down and put my hands in my pockets and walk back to my house briskly, forcing myself to not lose my nerve. There is a vague sense of panic and all I can think about is the risk of that invitation, but I force myself to go through with it. For her.

I collapse into the armchair in my sitting room and flip through a book unseeing. My time is measured in idle motions, spurred on by a will to live that I am not sure I have anymore. Katniss doesn't need me. Not anymore.

I am on the cusp of sleep when it happens. Knock, knock. My prosthetic protests my getting up, but I cannot help but hope that it is her. In a rush, I throw the book down blindly behind me.

When I finally reach the door, I am quick to throw it open. I regret it immediately, as it seems to have startled Katniss. She quickly puts her hands behind her back, but I do not miss the way they shake and the momentary look of panic in her eyes.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself." The answer comes to me like instinct, but she flinches as if I have physically struck her. Perhaps it's something that old Peeta would have said. I will have to add it to my list of phrases to avoid.

"Um… thank you for the cheese buns." Awkward as ever, her voice is hesitant and cracks at the end. But hearing her voice is a gift I have forgotten.

"You're welcome. Were you- do you want to come inside?" This seems to stray from the way she planned this conversation going.

Try not to say anything that could alarm her, just let her come to you.

Too late for that master plan, Dr. Aurelius. She seems panicked for a moment, fumbling for a response. No, not a response. An excuse to flee the situation. It's disappointing that she will not accept my offer, but I shouldn't have expected anything different. Maybe I shouldn't have offered in the first place.

"It's okay, I'm sorry. Um… well, let me know if you ever have any special requests. Bye, Katniss." This is painful. I tack on a weak smile at the end, but just before the door can latch, she stops me.

"I brought some venison for dinner tonight. I thought you might be sick of squirrel, and I caught a buck this morning. But we can have something else if you don't want to. I mean, um whatever you want is fine. I can just go if you don't want to do dinner tonight. I bet you're busy and here I am bothering you-"

She is rambling something horrible, avoiding eye contact and rocking back and forth on her heels. It takes me a moment to realize that she doesn't know what I want her to say.

"Katniss, venison sounds great. Thank you." I muster up an understanding smile for her, but inside I am trying to pick apart what she said. She's never been the most conversational, but I'm not sure talking to her has ever been this strange.

She struggles with social interactions. She doesn't know where she stands with you anymore.

I take a deep breath and hope against hope that she cannot tell what I am thinking. She needs me to be supportive.

"Oh, okay. I'll just- here." She bites her lip and brings her hands back in front of her, thrusting a wax paper package towards me.

And that's when it happens. It only takes a droplet of blood from the venison falling on her hands for my brain to lose it's delicate sanity.

I fretted fire but that was long ago - and it's not tonight, where I'm set alight - and I blink in sight of your blinding light

He brings both of his hands to his temples, grasping at his head. I see his pupils dilate, and the feeling of blood on my hand registers. He must be having an episode. Panicking, I quickly put down the steak and brush my hands on my pants furiously. But it's too late; he's in too deep.

He stumbles through the doorway, and as I reach out to stabilize him he throws himself away. He lands with a loud thump onto the hardwood floor. He shakes his head back and forth, as if trying to dislodge the thoughts from his mind. I am frozen, unsure of how to help him.

"Peeta, it's not real. It's okay; you're okay. We're in your house in Victor's Village. Whatever you're seeing didn't happen. Everyone is safe and sound." I do not register that I am speaking until I feel my voice break. He doesn't seem to hear me.

Helplessly, I fall to my knees in front of him. When I lift my hand, he flinches but doesn't grab at me when I bring it to his cheek. His breathing is heavy and I grab his chin, forcing his eyes to meet mine. I brush my thumbs gently across his cheekbones. I sing every song I can remember until recognition returns to his eyes. When I begin to pull away, he gently grabs my wrists and holds me in place.

"Keep singing?" His voice is quiet and broken, and I know that I cannot - will not - deny him anything. Sometimes he mumbles and hums along with me, but my lullabies slowly seem to bring him back to me.

"I'm sorry, Katniss." He tells me this as the last song fades from my lips. His hands drop from mine, coming down to grip his knees instead. I shake my head and continue stroking his face. But I know that my silence does not tell him enough.

"It's okay." It feels like there is a spell cast over us. We do not break eye contact and I find myself resting my forehead against his. Something inside of me screams that I have missed this. Missed him.

It takes the sound of Haymitch cursing at his geese to break us from our collective revere. I drop my hands to my sides and quickly rush out. As a second thought, I look over my shoulder and call to him.

"I'll see you at 6." I rush into my house and lean against the front door as soon as it has closed. I feel as though my heart should be racing, as though I have escaped a great threat. But there is a peculiar feeling deep down inside of me. During an episode he could very well kill me, and yet I stayed with him.

And all I can think of is when I will see him next.

Oh, it's not tonight, where you hold me tight - And the fire bright, let it blaze, alright

Dinner had been a quiet affair, as though we were walking on egg shells. Or at least, Peeta and I had been. Haymitch was his usual self, loud and cantankerous. The only thing about his presence that I appreciated was him staying long enough that Peeta and I would not be alone.

I do not know how to act anymore, or what to say. We are closer to strangers than we were the day we met.

It makes my heart ache, but I deny the urge to storm across the Village and spend the night with him. Because those arms are not safe anymore, not really. And he would not want me there besides.

So I treat myself to hot chocolate instead and force myself to sit in my living room and nurse on it instead. It goes against every fibre in my being, but I simply cannot cross this impenetrable line that separates us.

When I fall asleep, I am dream not of the horrors I have faced in waking but of the pleasures of sleep with him. His arms around me, holding me tight. His hand rubbing small circles on the small of my back. His breath on my head, the beat of his heart.

His, his, his.

I wake and want for him desperately, but he is not in reach. And I yearn not for his comfort, but for him. It alarms me, but I console myself by making breakfast and calling Prim since I missed her call last night.

I want her here more than anything, the ache acute in my heart. My bed is far too big for me alone, but I have no one to share it with. I simply ignore that there is only one person that I want in it. But she lives across the street and it is not something I can ask of her. After all, I cannot provide the safe haven we once found in each other.

Instead, I lie awake and watch her read from the window. She is sipping from her mug, but sits there staring into nothingness for a long time. Her head drops to her chest, and I know that she has fallen asleep. But the light is still on, and I find it incredibly comforting that I can see her. I fall asleep on my side, watching through the open window and counting her breaths.