Peeta hugs me endearingly as I breathe deeply to take in the clean scent of freshly-fallen snow sifting through the wintry air. Fluffy snowflakes land on my black fur coat and hat and litter his eyelashes.

"Isn't this beautiful?" I ask in amazement for the fat white flakes falling all around us. It's winter now, and I have lived with Peeta ever since that one fateful night I had visited him. (His parents don't mind my presence, considering I do extra work around the house.) He pampers me, but I still feel as though I am an extra burden thrust upon him and his family. We try to be secretive about our little arrangement, taking care not to head out into the open together—except for now, where we sit on the icy steps of his back porch.

He looks at me under snowflake-draped lashes. "You've never seen snow?"

"We didn't have snow in District 1," I say quietly, touching my leather-gloved hand to the white ground. "I'd heard about it, but never actually witnessed it. It's much more beautiful than they said it was!"

Peeta laughs softly. "It's a pain sometimes; back before the Games, it was a hassle if there was a blizzard going on while you were trying to get to the Hob to trade bread for meat."

I close my eyes and try to imagine this; Peeta, eating only bread, but his bones aching for what little bit of protein they could receive, be it squirrel or deer. "I don't want to imagine you hungry."

"You saw me hungry during the Games."

He's right. We were all so hungry during the Games, but us Careers got plenty more to eat than the rest of the tributes. They starved while we feasted on succulent dried jerky and fruits.

I drop my gaze. "I know."

"It's okay," he says quietly. "I'm not mad at you or anything." He takes my hand lovingly and kisses it. "You're the only thing that's made my life somewhat bearable in these few months."

A rosy blush rises through my face. "Katniss…"

He falls silent for a while, and then mutters quietly. "Let's not talk about her, please."

The blush turns to frustration. Every time I bring her up, it's like he's afraid to talk about her, as though she has super-sonic hearing capable of picking up even the slightest mention of her name. I keep my mouth shut though, since it is a touchy subject for him.

The wind picks up, sending Peeta's floppy blond hair this way and that. His voice is heartbreakingly tragic as he nearly sings, "Everything I am now is just a remnant of the Hunger Games."

Until now, I had almost forgotten the tragedy of the wretched thing. I had almost forgotten my allegiance to Marvel. I had almost forgotten the dead bodies of innocent kids, horrifyingly cold and lifeless on the plush grass. I had almost forgotten little Rue, so fresh and young with her life stolen so soon. I had almost forgotten my best friend, Rhiannon, back in District 1; my twin siblings, Olive and Vernon. I had put everything that had etched such importance in my mind behind me. In this very second, however, it has all rushed back to the front of my discombobulated brain. The pain of remembrance hits me like a brick wall.

I will miss my brother and sister's birthday.

I will miss warm, sunny days drinking lemonade on Rhi's porch.

I will miss everything I knew.

I've finally realized that being with Peeta is merely an antidepressant to me; simply a painkiller for the imminent disaster I will become.

And I know he feels the same way about me. He said I was the only thing that made his life "somewhat bearable."

We exchange a long glance, speaking to each other with eyes that tell their own stories. A soft tear rolls down his smooth cheek and his voice makes a choked, unnerving sound. "I never showed you all of my paintings."

"You showed me the ones of flowers and stuff…"

"That's not all."

Peeta takes my hand and guides me up the stairs to the top floor of the house, into the sole room on this floor. He closes the door gently and turns on the electricity, allowing me to fully absorb the room.

This room was once filled with warm memories and captivating paintings, but both are gone now. He and I used to sit here on late, temperate fall days, sunlight shining off of warm skin and countless hairs. I would watch him in fascination as he drew and painted beautiful, realistic images of raindrops and flowers; everything kind, sweet, and gentle. Everything I thought was Peeta. It is now, however, both figuratively and literally cold; illuminated only by the glow of the fluorescent light and the clouded sunlight from the bay window peering out into the snow-consumed front yard. The room itself is empty except for the many paintings sitting on their easels in the corner of the room, covered by a huge, cream-colored tarp.

"I don't understand," I mumble.

He furiously rips the tarp from the paintings, scattering the visible dust motes everywhere around us. "Look!" Peeta exclaims, reaching to grab my wrist and gently pushing me in front of the despicable paintings. On them are terrifyingly vivid images of the Games and Katniss—she is inscribed everywhere on canvas and in his mind. An image of Cato being pulled apart limb by limb by the muttations; a psychedelic one of Peeta and Katniss in the warm glow of the cave as she stoops over him; portraits of Katniss in the trees, holding Rue, on the ground, in the water, everywhere. And in one of his collage-style paintings, a fleeting image of me—but one that is not able to be missed—rain-drenched and sitting huddled in a black tent.

"Now that you've seen these," he begins, almost pushed to anger. "Try and tell me that what I said isn't true. I dare you."

I can't even meet his eyes. "I don't think that me staying here is good for you."

"I was afraid to show you these. I didn't think you would understand."

"Oh, I fully understand. I understand how scarred you are by the Games. I should me more emotionally destroyed too, but for some reason, I'm not. You shouldn't hold on to anything that reminds you of the Games," I whisper softly, my voice carrying through the air of the small room and bouncing off the walls. "And that includes me."

He tilts my chin upward to look at him. "Bree, I love you. You have to believe me. I don't want you to just leave me here. You have become such a part of me now that if you leave, it'll just leave an even bigger hole in my heart." His voice is pleading, begging so much that I become irritated beyond reproach.

I shove myself off of him as hot, fiery tears roll down my cheeks. "Listen to yourself, Peeta! How can you say that, when you barely knew me? I'll tell you why: you're using me to fill the 'hole' that Katniss left in your heart. You've always used me for that; before you knew she 'loved' you and after she left you!" My eyes search his face, looking for some signs of remorse—some sign that what I said had the possibility of a smidge of untruthfulness, but I find only that same blank stare he gets whenever I mention her name.

And I know I'm right.

His mouth barely moves as he pleads, "Please, Breelle. Don't say that."

"You didn't deny it."

"I've learned to love you in the past few months…"

I shake my head ruefully. "Only because I'm here…and I'm not her."

"Don't," he begs again, blond brows crinkling together in pain. "Don't leave. You've been my only friend."

"And that's all I'll ever really be to you, isn't it?" I ask, echoing his same tone. "I can't make your depression go away forever. It'd be so selfish of me to stay here and let you keep having to paint these—" I pause to gesture to the increasingly disturbing paintings, "—in order for you to temporarily stop having nightmares. It'll never work."

"You really don't understand," Peeta mutters. "Where will you go if you leave? Who will take care of you? Did you ever ask yourself that?"

"I'll figure something out," I reply, backing out of the room to go and pack my things. He follows me to the room, lost for words, until I begin to take off the matching black fur coat and hat that he bought for me with his winnings.

He puts his large hands on my shoulders, keeping the coat in place. "Keep it. Please." A perplexed look crosses my face, and he goes on to explain. "I hope someday it'll remind you that I really do love you. Maybe you'll come back…"

I shake my head. "No, I can't. You'll be living happily ever after with Katniss in a few months, mark my words."

He stares at me for an agonizingly long second, grabs my face with his comfortingly familiar hands, and kisses me in a pained manner, like this is our last kiss (which it most likely is). My hands reflexively travel up his spine and smooth themselves against the soft, wool fabric of his sweater. Our closed lips tumble clumsily over one another's, attempting to savor the last bit of closeness we'll have with each other. When we pull away, he presses his forehead against mine. "I shouldn't let you leave."

"It's for the best," I breathe heavily, both in shock and in exhilaration. "You need to let me go. For me, please."

As I stand on Peeta Mellark's front porch, I once again find myself walking away from the boy I love. The boy I really love; at least enough to put aside my selfish nature for once and let him have what's best for him. I throw my backpack full of sensible clothing and items Peeta bought for me over my shoulder and trudge through the snow in my waterproof anorak boots, each step filling me with dread, and yet, the feeling that I've done the right thing for once.

As much as it pains me, as much as I would've loved to stay with him, I realize that this is Panem, and I'm a citizen of District 12…

There is no fairytale ending.