I think it's getting easier. There are still lost days, still days when Greasy Sae has to drag me out of bed and down to the kitchen, but once I'm there I'll usually eat without being fed now. Most mornings I go out to my woods after breakfast. It's not the best time to hunt, I'd have much better luck at sunrise and sunset, but it's fine for checking the snare lines and gathering the greens that are popping up everywhere now. And I do shoot, a little anyway. Squirrels and rabbits mostly. It's taken a couple of weeks to be able to get them through the eye, like before, but my arm strength and my steadiness are returning bit by bit. I still struggle with endurance but since I'm never in a hurry anymore I let myself rest as often as I wish. Sometimes I even nap out here, cradled on a bed of pine needles and moss, dappled sunshine soothing me.

I cry out here too; in the solitude of my woods I feel my losses more acutely. Every medicinal herb I discover is another opportunity to reflect on the people who no longer need me to gather them. Every animal and bird I catch reminds me of the people who I no longer help support with my hunting, of the people I can no longer trade with because they too are gone.

I often think of Gale out here, how can I not when these woods have been ours, together, since I was 12? Every tree, every path, every berry patch and stream, all of them I shared with Gale. I miss the Gale I used to know, the one who could make me smile and even sometimes laugh, the one who made hunting easier and more fun, the one who really knew me, who I could speak with about almost anything. That Gale is gone, and he's never coming back, one more person that the Capitol stole from me. Now there is only the heartless man who blew up miners and built bombs that killed my sister, who took away from me the only person I was ever sure I loved. And that Gale isn't coming back either. I was relieved to find out that Gale is in District Two, but it doesn't extinguish the pain of his abandonment, not really.

Without thinking about it, I've ventured to our meeting spot. The blackberry brambles that surround it are covered in white flowers now, I should gather some, and some leaves, to make tea, but instead I curl up in our nook, which is much too big without him beside me, and let the loneliness wash over me.

I cry for a while, feel sorry for myself, and wonder, again, why I continue to live, why my heart continues to beat when so many others who were far more deserving don't have that luxury. The sun moves across the sky and small animals skitter by, near enough to almost reach out and grab them, but I remain still and silent. If I make myself small enough maybe I'll just fade away.

Out of nowhere, Greasy Sae's face swims in front of my eyes, and I feel guilty. I can't fade away, not after she's invested so much effort into keeping me alive these past few months. I suspect she's being paid to look after me, but the gentleness and kindness with which she treats me is all her own. She's been looking out for me in small ways since my father died. Maybe even before. Sae lost everything in the firebombing except for a single granddaughter, but I haven't heard a word of complaint from her. She lives in one of the big houses of Victor's Village now, looking out over the burned out shell of what was once her home and her livelihood. I've heard her chatting with Peeta about reopening her stall now that there is a rudimentary marketplace in town. She has hope, she believes in the future. For her I push myself through the motions of living.

And if I'm being honest, it's not just for Sae. It was Peeta returning that drew me out of the endless blackness that had consumed me since I was shipped back to District 12. Peeta coming to breakfast, baking me bread, remembering the cheese buns that I love. He seems like the Peeta of old: friendly, encouraging, kind. He shows up every morning without fail, bearing warm baked goods and an even warmer smile. I long to talk to him, really talk, but I'm afraid of opening old wounds. Still he shows up, in spite of my reticence and seeming indifference. He has a kind smile even when I can't make myself look up from my plate. I've missed him, really missed him, that steadiness and dependability. I'd thought it was gone forever but here he is. And that's the crux of it maybe, he was gone once, I'm terrified that if I let myself accept him he'll be gone again. What holds Peeta to District 12 anyway? He could be anywhere, everyone loves Peeta, he's sweet and funny, and when he speaks people listen. He's attractive too; I'd have to be blind not to notice. I watch him some mornings, when he's distracted talking to Greasy Sae. His blond curls are overlong now, and sometimes my fingers itch to bury themselves in his hair, to tug gently, to brush the silky waves off his brow. I'm still fascinated by his long golden lashes too, and those stunning blue eyes. He's regained a lot of the muscle he lost in the arena and during his captivity, and grown taller too. His shoulders are broad and his arms are strong and muscled, and those hands, those big hands and long fingers, the hands of an artist. I remember how his hands felt wrapped around mine, our fingers entwined, how steady and safe those hands are.

When they're not strangling me.

But I have to push that thought aside, that wasn't Peeta, that was the Capitol's creation. That's not the boy who brings me bread and smiles. They wouldn't have sent him back if he was any danger to me, I think. Certainly I haven't seen any evidence that mutt Peeta still exists. It's another thing I wish I could ask him, what they did to cure him, whether he's gotten back all that they stole. No, I know the answer to that anyway; he'll never get back everything they took from him, just like I won't. I think of the question he asked me on the train home from the first games: how much will be left? The answer is just as murky now as it was then.

I pick myself up and dust myself off, I've been out here for hours now and I really shouldn't go back empty handed.

My snares have caught only a couple of squirrels, still, Greasy Sae can turn those into a hearty stew I know. She can turn just about anything into a good meal, she's always been able to do that, it's just one of the many things I admire about her.

Striding back into Victor's Village I decide to drop in on Haymitch. Even though he continues to be ornery and drunk I try to check in on him from time to time. When I'm not lost to myself anyway. We will probably never really get along, but he's like family to me now, especially since my own family is gone. I have so few people left in my life.

I enter through the back door, the one that leads to his kitchen. It's not locked, and I don't bother knocking. It's not like he'd answer anyway. Today he's sitting at his kitchen table, sipping amber coloured liquid from a glass and eating slices of bread that could only have come from Peeta. His kitchen is fetid, the stench of dirty dishes and rotting food almost overwhelming. Still, it's the cleanest room of the house. Haymitch has fallen back into squalor since we returned to District 12. I resolve to ask Thom if there's someone in town I could hire to clean up in here. I have my doubts though, Hazelle might have been the only person with a strong enough stomach to deal with the cesspool that is Haymitch.

He glances up from his bread as I enter. "Well look what the cat dragged in! Hello Sweetheart," he slurs, I'm guessing the amber liquid is some sort of alcohol. I drop into a chair across from him wordlessly. He gestured towards his bread, "Boy's back."

I roll my eyes at him, "He's been back for a month Haymitch and you're just noticing now?" He shrugs.

"I noticed the bread, but I haven't seen him. I just wake up and here it is, waiting on my table. Like magic."

I snort, "Some magic. He's been baking for you for a month and you haven't even said thanks?"

The look he gives me is sardonic. "Yeah, because I'm the only one who hasn't thanked him for a couple of loaves of bread." I feel the heat rising in my face and my ears burn, but I have no comeback for that because, of course, he's right. I choose instead to glare at him. That simply makes him chuckle.

"Yeah well…"

We sit in silence for a while; we've never really needed words, either of us. He finally speaks again, more gently than typical. "You're looking a lot better Sweetheart. Sae says you're eating better too." I want to be offended that Sae is reporting to him, but I'm not, Haymitch is, after all, my legal guardian, as strange as that is. I can't even be angry about it anymore. So I simply shrug. "Wouldn't have anything to do with a certain baker boy now would it?"

I scowl at him, "Shut up, Haymitch." He chuckles again, but says nothing else, finishing his glass of amber and attacking another slice of bread.

"Sae says he looks good, back to normal." He's fishing, but I don't bite. Finally he sighs and simply asks "Are you okay with him being back Sweetheart?"

I study his grey eyes, looking in them for any reason why I shouldn't be okay, but they're inscrutable. I shrug, "I guess." He nods, but his brows knit together. "What?" I ask defensively.

"Are you afraid of him?" The question surprises me, I know what he means, after the attacks in 13 and in the Capitol, but I assumed that the doctors wouldn't have let him come to District 12 if it would endanger me. I mean, I don't have any other choice of where to be, while he could go anywhere.

"Should I be?" I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice wavers a little at the end, betraying me. Do I need to be afraid of Peeta? I still have nightmares of the day he tried to strangle me, but it's not his hands around my throat that make me wake up screaming in terror, it's his eyes, icy and full of loathing. Those eyes that could see all of the evil and blackness in me. I shudder inwardly.

"No." Haymitch says with such finality that I'm forced to look up at him again. "I've been speaking with Dr. Aurelius pretty regularly; he's kept me up to date about Peeta's progress. Peeta will probably never be cured, you understand that right?" I have nothing to say to that, as much as I hoped that they'd be able to undo what they did to Peeta I think I've always known it was an impossibility. Haymitch continues, "He's the only person who has ever survived being hijacked, his recovery is so much more than any of us could have hoped for. He's no longer violent and for the most part he's not confused, though there are some gaps in his head."

"He seems fine to me." I'm not even sure if this is true, I mean, Peeta's not screaming that I'm a mutt, and his smiles seem genuine enough, but I see him for all of 40 minutes a day and I haven't spoken more than a dozen words to him since the day he planted the primroses.

Haymitch is quiet for a long time, as if he's deciding whether to continue. "Katniss," his use of my real name startles me, makes me pay closer attention, "Do you know why Peeta came back here?"

"This is his home."

Haymitch smirks, "His home burned down Sweetheart, his family is dead, what does he have in District 12?"

I know what he wants me to say. "He has us," I whisper. Haymitch snorts.

"He has us does he Sweetheart? I'm asleep when he comes by, and you barely acknowledge him over breakfast." I bristle at this.

"What the hell do you know, Haymitch? You don't know anything at all about me or Peeta! You haven't even spoken to him once since he got back, and you've never come to see me! If I didn't come by from time to time you'd forget what I even looked like!" I'm so angry that he's lecturing me about Peeta, for months he never so much as stuck his head in my back door but he's concerned that I'm not paying enough attention to Peeta? It always comes back to this; I'm never going to be good enough for Peeta and Haymitch is going to make sure that I know it.

"I have other ways of keeping tabs on you, Sweetheart, I don't need to look at you." He practically sneers and I wonder, not for the first time, just how many glasses of that amber alcohol he's had. I deflate; I don't have it in me to fight with Haymitch today. Or maybe ever.

"Fine," I say, "What are you getting at Haymitch, cut to the chase."

"He came back for you, Sweetheart. Kid still loves you." His words twist in my stomach, make my chest flutter uncomfortably.

"No." I state emphatically, "No he doesn't. That's gone Haymitch, the Capitol saw to that." He quirks an eyebrow at me and drags his eyes to the heel of bread still sitting on his table. I follow his gaze and understand what he's hinting at. "No," I say again, "That's just Peeta being Peeta, being good and kind and giving…" I sniff a little, remembering. Even when he was so angry with me, before the Victory Tour, even then there were baked goods wrapped in paper left on my porch. Even then he wouldn't abandon me completely.

"You're still completely oblivious. Or are you just pining for Tall, Dark and Absent?" His tone is contemptuous. I pick up his empty glass tumbler and throw it at his head. He's lucky that my aim is still off; it hits the wall behind him and shatters. He doesn't even flinch. I refuse to talk about Gale, our friendship is over, and there was really no chance of us ever having had more than that anyway. I push back my chair and make for the door.

"Katniss." I stop, but don't turn around. "What did we go through all of this for? Don't throw your life away because you're too afraid to live it."

"It's not living I'm afraid of." I say to the door. "They're all gone Haymitch. I can't lose anyone else." I can hear him shuffling behind me, opening a cupboard door. Probably looking for another clean glass. Good luck with that, Haymitch.

"He'll wait forever, you know that, but it wouldn't be fair to either of you. You both deserve happiness." His voice is tinged with melancholy, and maybe regret. I still don't turn back. I can hear liquid sloshing; I guess he found something clean enough. The booze will probably kill anything growing on his dirty dishes anyway.

I chew on my lip, staring out his back door for what feels like a long time before finally I admit, "I'm glad he's back." There's so much more that I should say but I don't have the words. I never have the words. But Haymitch doesn't need words to understand me. So I leave his house without looking back.