I'm scared.

I'm so, so scared

that every time he mentions it

I lay awake looking at the ceiling

for three nights afterward.

It is like butterflies in my stomach

but not

because it is so much worse,

how scared I am for a child that doesn't even exist yet.

I know people think that I refuse because I wouldn't love it.

No,

I know I would love it.

At least,

I know I'd try.

And if I tried there would be a chance that I would love it too much.

And that really would kill me.

Because then the fear would be crippling.

Fear is like that,

always worse when it's mingled with love.

But.

One night,

after he's asked me again,

in his subtle way that shows me he's trying not to hope too much

and also trying not to scare me or anger me,

I lay awake staring at the ceiling.

And the butterflies are there again.

Then,

suddenly,

they aren't.

They're gone,

and with them the fear.

I let myself think about a child of mine

without letting my darkness wash out the joy I'm sure it would bring me.

I think about pitter-patter baby feet

and baking with Peeta

and singing with me

and Christmases where there will be enough for it to eat

and presents for it to play with.

I think about how pretty that baby would be,

how kind and gentle it would have to be,

with a father like Peeta.

I think about how it's stubbornness would be there too,

because it would be part me.

I think about Peeta as a father,

how wonderful he'd be.

I even think about me as a mother,

how I might not be the best but I would try very, very hard.

I took care of my baby sister, after all.

Thinking of her brings back the pain for an instant,

but it's not as sharp as it used to be.

I let myself believe that if I raised Prim,

(because I did almost raise her)

and she grew up to be the beautiful, optimistic, wonderful little person she was,

I could maybe raise one of my own.

One that I was supposed to raise,

not one that I had to start to raise because my father couldn't come home anymore

and my mother couldn't either, really.

Then the butterflies come back.

And I'm scared again.

But I can't undo those pretty little thoughts,

the ones of babies and a real family

beyond just Peeta and I.

I can't get rid of them,

not the next day,

or the next week,

or three months later when I finally decide to tell Peeta I stopped taking my shot.

He smiled so big the butterflies were gone for almost three days after that.

It won't be nearly as big as the one he'll give me tonight, though.

Because I went to the doctor today.

And they told me that tonight I'll be giving him the gift he's been longing for,

the gift that I still get frightened little butterflies about.

But they're accompanied by something else,

something that feels like joy,

and love,

and optimism.

And I think for the second time in my life that I can do this.