Today will be six months since we lost our daughter. Most days I'm okay. Others I can't get out of bed. The pain still feels fresh, like I open a new wound each day. I don't know how to make the pain less, to move on. A box of tissues lay on my bedside table, the box almost empty. It's ridiculous how many boxes I've gone through over the past few months, and chocolates. So much chocolate that I don't want to see it again…until I want it again. And pickles, I never thought I could like pickles with everything lately. It's been strange, and my waistline isn't agreeing with the eating choices I've been making. Each day my pants are getting a wee bit tighter and harder to button. Stress. Too damn much of it.

I'm brought out of my thoughts by Peeta massaging my shoulders. I groan and place the pillow over my head. "No." I grumble into the pillow.

Peeta responds with a chuckle and tries to slither his way under the pillow to lay his head beside mine, "Time to get up, my love." He kisses my hair, and his hands find my waist. "Come on, Kat," I feel his arm lock underneath me knees and his other wrap around my shoulders.

"No, no, no, no," I beg, but it's too late as he begins to carry me down the steps and to the living room. He throws me on the couch and I give a loud laugh. "What's wrong with you?" I saw between my laughs, rubbing my eyes.

"Getting you up at a reasonable time," I sit up and cross my legs on the couch. I turn to watch him in the kitchen, cracking the eggs with ease and whisking them with confidence. I place my head on my arms that lay up against the back of the couch.

"It's Saturday morning," I argue, "Why couldn't I have slept past eleven?"

"No, I'm not allowing that anymore," I hear him chuckle. The pan sizzles from something he mixed in it.

"Fine," I conclude.

For a while, I sit there watching him fix breakfast in silence. Every so often, I see him glance back at me, either to see if I'm still there or if I haven't bursted into tears yet. I don't know which one would be worse for him.

"How are you doing?" I hear him ask. Instantly, I know what he's talking about. The tone in his voice made it clear. But surprisingly, it doesn't cause me to cry.

"I'm," I search for the right words for the situation, "Hanging in there, I guess." I look to him and see he's placing the plates on the table. I walk over and join him in setting the table. I place my hand on his back, I feel his muscles tense, then relax when he realizes it's me. "What about you? I didn't even ask how you are."

He turns to face me, grabbing my hand and brushing his lips up against it, "I'm good." He smiles, "But it's only ten-thirty," We both chuckle and sit at the table.

I scarf down my meal faster than normal, and practically beg for seconds. I look at Peeta and see a glimmer of something in his eye, I don't pay attention for long after he's scooped more eggs onto my plate.

Once we finish, Peeta looks up at me, "What do you want to do for her today?" I bite my lip and shrug.

Honestly, I don't know what I want to do. Sleep sounds good, but it's not an option. Crying looks to be a plan, but Peeta won't allow it for long. I'd rather just forget, but I can't. Something inside me isn't letting go and it's destroying of whatever little sanity I have left. Every little thought turns into an unwanted memory. Even just knowing that's it's been half a year since we lost her makes my heart break.

"I don't know what I want to do today." I run my fingers through my hair. I really don't know. My mind's racing and I can't seem to process a simple thought. My head starts to throb to the rhythm of my heartbeat and it feels as if I've been punched in the stomach. I hold my hand over my mouth, but it does no use, I feel it coming. My eyes reach the sink, and my destination is clear. My breakfast makes it way back up and out and soon enough I'm staring at my own half-digested breakfast. I feel Peeta grab my hair and hold it back for me. He begins to scramble for a cup with one hand while still trying to hold my hair. "Here, here," he tells me, holding the water by my face. I gratefully accept it. "Come on,"

He places a hand on the small of my back and the other by my face, in case my body doesn't agree with my breakfast again. I make it to the bathroom, and sit on the cold marble floor against the porcelain tub. I close my eyes, hoping the current nausea will go away, but instead I find my head in the worst place for it to be. I feel Peeta pull my hair back again, this time securing it with a ponytail. He refills my glass and hands it to me as he slides down to sit next to me.

I place my head on his shoulder, making a note to apologize for this later on. He dabs my forehead with a wet washcloth. "You okay?" he asks, wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling my closer.

I nod, "I'm sorry I ruined the day."

He shakes his head, looking down at me, "You didn't ruin the day at all. Now it just gives me an excuse to relax and watch movies with you all day long."

"You don't mean that," I chuckle.

"Yes I do."

"Why would you want to do that?" I ask.

"Because I love you."

And in that simple, beautiful moment it was settled. We weren't going to worry about what day it is, or if it had any significant meaning. We'd celebrate it like it was any other day: with movies and big blankets.

Peeta wouldn't let me do anything. He wouldn't let me light the fireplace, nor would he let me make tea. The only activity I was allowed to do was place the blankets down on the couch. And when I asked he answered, "Just rest. That's all you need is rest." Dumbest effing excuse I've ever heard.

So I sit with my arms crossed starting at the black television, glooming in my own self despair and trying to figure out why what happened today did. Well, food cravings. Stress. And then the weight gain. Even more stress. Nausea. Food poisoning? No way, Peeta's an excellent cook. Then what was it?

Oh, my God. No. Am I pregnant?