He's been laying on the floor with his phone in his hands for the better part of an hour, she's shocked it hasn't fallen on his face. (She kind of wants it to, maybe that'll make this stop).
"She's not going to write."
"You don't know that. She usually replies when its important." It wasn't important, it's never important anymore.
"She's not going to. She's with Gloss."
The phone slips a little and his face tightens in the jealously he vehemently denied a short while ago. Cashmere takes a gulp from her wine glass, utterly exhausted by this bullshit.
"He won't keep her out late. She has practice in the morning," Finnick insists, readjusting the phone in his numbing hands.
He won't let go.
"Why can't you just admit you fucked up and that she's gone! Annie Cresta doesn't want Finnick Odair anymore, she's out grown you!" Cashmere screams like she has always wanted to.
The screen falls asleep and he sits up long enough to chug the rest of his rum and coke then falls back down and waking the screen; staring at the last message sent to Annie.
Hope was all he had. Stupid, ridiculous hope that this was all just a big misunderstanding, that her and Gloss weren't a legitimate thing.
The hours passed until he runs into her "unexpectedly" in the studio hallway. She barely looks at him let alone says hello or smiles, Annie Cresta just whisks on by with her sheet music pressed to her chest.
Stupid, ridiculous hope.