Caesar Flickerman. I can't believe he still has this job. That we are sitting here on this same old forsaken loveseat, on the light blasted stage in front of a crowd packed to the walls. A few strands of grey hair peak out from the dyed purple, but otherwise he looks the same as the first time I met him up here.

I want to leap out of the loveseat and dig my nails into his perfectly painted face. I want to scream in rage that he put Peeta through those interviews; that he sat by and did nothing but his job while Peeta obviously deteriorated. But to do that, I would have to let go of Peeta's hand. Then Peeta would lose his anchor, and he's barely keeping it together as it is as Caesar asks an endless train of questions we don't want to answer.

For once, the show is not dominated by the witty banter between Caesar and Peeta. Instead, I do all the talking, with a few short comments added by Peeta here and there, while I hold his hand tightly in my lap. I'm careful to hold his sleeve down against his thumb to hide the after effects of this morning. His pain is on display as it is; I will give them no other scars to pick at. I'm still worried he's going to fall apart on camera, for all of Panem to see. So I do my best to make it as easy for him as possible though I know I'm failing miserably. He continues to shift uncomfortably in his seat as Flickerman quizzes us on our role in the war and what we are up to now a year later.

Every once in a while, Peeta's eyes dart offstage. He catches Effie or Haymitch, and the plea in his eyes is so painfully obvious. Get us out of here, they scream, silently but so loud. Let us go home, so we can fall apart privately.

Caesar cannot help but comment on our skin grafting. He tells us how wonderful we look, that you could never tell our skin was anything other than perfection. He marvels at the technology, and how we are experiencing a technological boom as the districts start to diversify their trades. He even asks me to get up and give a twirl for the crowd for old time's sake. I want to refuse; I'm terrified of letting go of Peeta's hand. But Peeta gives me an almost unperceivable nod, so I rise from the loveseat and spin before promptly reaching for him again.

Then the questions get even more personal. "Katniss," Caesar says, realizing by now that it is pointless to direct any of the conversation towards Peeta. It doesn't matter who he addresses; I've rushed into a spilled out answer for all his questions for the past ten minutes, twenty minutes - however long we've been up here. "How were you able to manage your relationship, your marriage, with Peeta in the Capitol and you in District Thirteen fighting against each other until Peeta was bravely rescued?"

"Peeta and I were never fighting each other." I struggle with the urge to cry as I see Cinna in the crowd. He looks just as he did during my first interview, and he's mouthing the same words. I know he's gone, but in this moment I want desperately to believe that everyone was wrong. That somehow he made it out from under the arena alive. That he survived the war, he was only in hiding. It's utter lies, but I choose in the moment to believe it. Because I can talk to him about this, when I can't share with anyone else. I've longed to talk to him about all of it, everything that has happened since I last saw him. "We were fighting to get back to each other, but never against."

The crowd sighs. I want to hurl. Flickerman apologizes for not being able to do more back then to help. Accusations and threats are on the tip of my tongue, but I see Cinna discreetly shake his head. I swallow them all. Their bitterness almost chokes me.

We make a little more small talk. Caesar plays some clips of us over the past couple years. Then he asks what we are up to now as our lives settle down. I want to tell him that I feel hard from settled, but so far I've managed not to go off on a rant. I'm trying to manage at least that illusion of calm. So I tell him that I like to hunt and, being the reliable old host of the Hunger Games that he is, he has some clips already prepared of my hunting and gathering in the first Games. I'm the one squeezing Peeta's hand now. I'm reminded for the millionth time that he is keeping me grounded as well.

Caesar is adjusting in his chair, angling himself towards Peeta. Before he can repeat the question, I dive in. "Peeta still paints. He's only gotten better over time. And, of course, he has the bakery."

The mention of the bakery is exactly what Caesar has been waiting for. He cannot say enough things about the bakery, and there are clips, too, of its opening. Our time is running out and I am just thinking we've managed to make it through this whole ordeal without completely unravelling when Caesar asks us his final question. "Katniss, Peeta, before you go. All of Panem is dying to know. Are there any plans for children in your future? We were all so devastated about the loss of your pregnancy during the Quarter Quell."

Funny, how these Capitol drones could feel such loss for something imaginary and yet not bat an eye about sending us into the arena to battle for our lives. Try as I might, I will never wrap my head around the Capitol mentality of morality and right versus wrong. There are so many angry things that come to mind, and I want to scream them all until I am hoarse. But I see Cinna a final time, just a shimmer in the crowd. His eyes are sad; he feels my loss. Of him, of Prim, of Finnick. For everything I've done, all those I have hurt.

I haven't even thought about it, not really. But as I ponder what to say, I realize my stance hasn't changed. Our future is still so uncertain. Less than a year ago, Coin purposed a Hunger Games for children of the Capitol, as the scars and wounds were still so fresh. What's to say we won't revert back to the punishment of the Games? Plutarch's words resonate in my head. I want to say that after what happened last time, I'm still a little afraid that the new freedoms are too good to be true. I want to point a finger at the Capitol and place the blame. I decide on something a little more subtle. "After the loss of the baby," I don't even have to pretend to be choked up because I'm imagining Prim, "we aren't rushing to start a family again."

The crowd goes silent. Even Flickerman doesn't know what to say, other than a hasty send off. Finally, we are allowed to stand and exit the stage. We pass Johanna as we make our way backstage, and she has a satisfied smirk she shoots my way. I doubt she's going to be as civil as I was, especially since she's shaved her head bald for the occasion. I give her a nod of approval as we pass, and I focus on getting Peeta back to our rooms and out of the spotlight until this evening.