Three days go by.
I struggle to remember all of my past routines. It takes those three days to fall back into it, and once I have it all down again, it's easy.
It would be so easy to simply let my life play out again, the way it had before.
It is criminally simple to put my head down and pretend this is my normal, that I have no knowledge of my loved one's impending doom.
It is enough, for these last three days, to simply enjoy the time I am able to steal back.
I am reminded why Old Katniss had never strayed from her routines.
Life is not easy. There is still struggle.
There are early morning hunts that can end in disappointment and empty bellies. There are the sick and wounded from the mines coming to see my mother. School is nothing but teachers blathering nonsense. Primrose is not as hearty as she had been in District 13.
Despite all of this, there is that temptation to release control, to let fate take over, and submit to the intended future.
Then I am reminded of the suffering.
I will catch clips of old Hunger Games being televised. Prim will turn her cheek from me, and I am violently taken back to the explosion that kills her. Gale will wander out of sight in the woods, and I will search for him, in panic, consumed with the possibility that he has been shot down by Peacekeepers or mauled by mutts. Peeta will be in class, and I will watch him, and I am both terrified and eager to speak with him; anxious to be wrapped up in his arms again, to keep away the nightmares.
Only, this Peeta has no nightmares. This Peeta does not know me. He does not know my favorite color, my love of cheese buns, the dead children that haunt my dreams…
It is, perhaps, the most estranging part of being back in time.
I still have Prim and my mother, and their love. I have Gale, my best friend, and his family who know and love me. But there are pieces missing. Even as I try to half-heartedly plan out a future where I can save them, I know I cannot do it alone. At the same time, I am afraid to change certain things. What if I prevent something I hope happens from happening?
I wish I could speak with Haymitch, but he does not know me yet. I spotted him on the second day at the Hob. He was buying white liquor. I debated going over and speaking to him, but I had no idea what I should say. No one will believe me if I start going on about knowing the future, least of all Haymitch. Especially when he has no idea who I am.
Worse is Peeta.
He keeps catching me staring at him. Without fail, he smiles at me every time.
Yet, I have not found the courage to speak to him. I am afraid I will say too much.
The days will begin to add up soon. Reaping day is months away, but I know that if I tell myself to put it off, to not think about what I will do, I will regret it.
I have to have some plan, some strategy. One that goes beyond just surviving the Hunger Games. I have to both win the Hunger Games, ensuring that Peeta and I do it together, and that I set in place some plan, some idea – some hope that things will be different.
There are those who I cannot save. Rue. Thresh. Clove. Cato. Even if I want to save them, I cannot. I will be forced to watch them die again. Even if it happens differently, even if I am able to prolong it, their deaths are inevitable.
Having two Victors is not guaranteed. Peeta and I's star-crossed love story may play out differently, may break the fragile balance or – or it may just be convincing enough this time around.
If I am able to convince President Snow that Peeta and I are really truly madly in love, that I in fact need him, that I could not survive without him, perhaps that will prevent the Quarter Quell announcement and the Victor's from being reaped. This may hinder the rebellion and stall the Mockingjay's rise within District 13, but it will certainly prevent Peeta from being hijacked.
No brilliant idea comes to me, to ensure this, but nonetheless, I begin to train myself for the arena.
When I am able, I go out into the woods without Gale and hone my skills. I run until I cannot run anymore. I climb the tallest trees. I practice with my bow, but as I shoot, I remind myself that the bows in the Capitol will be strung differently and will require getting used to again. I practice shooting while moving, from high perches, at faster moving targets. I find my younger body has more potential, but it is not as toned as my future body. It has not endured enough. It has not been fed enough. Even while hunting more, I am not getting enough meat to gain weight.
In school, I do my best to remain calm in Peeta's presence. I intend to speak to him, soon, before the reaping, but I cannot say why I bide my time beyond the anxiousness I feel when I see him. I would be lying if I did not recognize it as an anxious need. I stall myself because I think I know I will be disappointed. He is not my Peeta. He does not understand me, not like he used to.
Within those first few days Gale and Prim were suspicious of my odd behavior. Since then, I have done relatively well in maintaining better composure. Their doubts have faded. While I enjoy my time with them, and it is with the utmost relief I get to see their faces every day, I feel as if the mask I wear has put a barrier between them and me. I am not me. Just like I felt that night before I took those pills, I am not that Old Katniss. I am moving, speaking, acting in the way I expect Old Katniss to. I am mimicking something. None of this is real.
When will it begin to feel real? When will I feel again that connection, that depth, that I crave?
I pace in the Meadow on the evening of that third day. The sun is setting. The sky is a stunning yellow-orange, and I know it would make Peeta happy. I squint into the horizon.
I should be home, helping with the chores. There are endless chores.
Once I win the Hunger Games, the chores will fade away, and so will the hunger. But then there will be other struggles, much less straight forward battles. Things I cannot just shoot an arrow at.
I tell myself that tomorrow is the day. I will speak with Peeta.
I have no plan, no script, because I know the script will likely go awry. I have no way of knowing what Peeta will say to me. I wish I could predict him, like I was able to in the future. He does not know me, but I also do not know him.
Still, I try to come up with some excuse as to why I will speak to him. I could do the inevitable. I could thank him for the bread, from when we were kids. Except, this feels too personal, too precious, to waste on our first conversation.
The opportunity presents itself in class.
The annual field trip to the mines is upon us. We are all dragged out of the school and given a tour of the coal mining facilities.
We wear helmets with flashlights on them and hi-vis vests. After touring the processing plant, we take the rickety elevator to the mining tunnels. We are split into groups, that will go down in teams, as to not hinder the daily miners' work by overcrowding the tunnels. I ensure from the beginning that Peeta and I are in the same group.
I have no plan beyond doing that, but Peeta has taken initiative.
I linger in the back of the group, barely able to see or hear the tour guide at the front. Peeta, unlike himself, falls back from the group and his friends and he glances over at me. I give him a smile, but it is likely strained; one, because of my anxiety, but two, because I still hate the mines and the reminder of my father's death.
"Hi," says Peeta.
He has fallen into pace beside me.
"Hi," I say.
"I wish we didn't have to do these field trips," he says.
"Yeah, they must be useless for someone like you," I say. "With the bakery, and all."
Peeta frowns. He looks away from me and surveys our surroundings.
"I was mostly thinking for people like you," he says.
"Like me?" I ask. "What do you mean?"
"Somebody who has lost someone, to the mines," he says, his tone softened. "It must be hard."
I lapse into silence, surprised by what he said. Of course, he knows about my father.
"I'm sorry about your father," he says, when I continue to say nothing.
I kick a nearby stone along the path.
"It's alright," I say. "Thanks."
"I don't mean to be rude," he says. "I know we haven't really talked before, but well, I saw you here in the back and thought you must be thinking of him."
I had been, but I was also thinking of Peeta.
I struggle to come up with a reply, but I also struggle with the realization that while that assumption may have been easy for someone to conclude, maybe this Peeta is more receptive than I have thought. Maybe this Peeta will know me, and with ease, and there is no need for a mask with him.
"I appreciate the company," I say.
Peeta smiles again, and even in the dim, dusty mine it shines.
"Glad to be of service," he jokes.
The tour continues. It is the same as all of the past tours, but with one difference: Peeta.
In the past, I had never been in his group. Normally, I would sulk in the back, and no one would disturb me, and I would pass each part of the mines thinking: Is this where my father died? Is this where Gale's father bled out? Is this where Gale might be crushed, in the future, when another inevitable collapse or explosion occurs?
Instead, Peeta does his best to entertain me.
I can see his attempts to keep me in conversation are meant to distract me and lighten my mood. At one point he mockingly imitates our tour guide. A few minutes later, he uses the flashlight in his helmet in an attempt to blind the guide from the back. Then he uses it to trace images along the tunnels' walls. He makes a game of it and encourages me to guess each time. I grudgingly guess, but I am almost never right, because it is an impossible game.
"Okay, watch. I'll go slowly this time," he says.
He maneuvers his head around, trying to trace out an image with the light on the darkened wall between lampposts.
This time I can easily see what it is.
"It's the letter K," I say, rolling my eyes.
"Yes, for Katniss," he says, clearly proud of his work.
I cannot help but smile. I am reminded of the dream, that I had of him, just before I took those pills, but not of Peeta and I laying together on the Tribute Center rooftop. Before that moment we had been simply hanging out, and it had been easy, and casual, as it feels now. We had used the forcefield around the roof to toss the apple back and forth. A game, like now.
"Why don't you give it a try?" he asks. "Trace something and I will guess."
That sounds like a terrible idea.
"Er – I'm not quite as artistic as you are," I say.
"I wouldn't exactly call tracing a letter K onto the wall artistic," he says.
"I've seen those cakes you make," I say.
Peeta smile falters, but I am barely able to catch it.
"You've seen them, huh?" He rubs at the back of his neck. "How'd you know I was the cake decorator?"
Oh, my first slip up.
"Your dad must have mentioned it one time," I say. "When I was trading with him."
"Oh, he did?" Peeta shrugs it off. "I guess it can be pretty artistic."
"Have you tried painting?" I ask him.
"Not really. Painting kind of requires a lot of supplies. At least we can sell the cakes."
"I bet you could probably sell some paintings, if you're good enough," I say.
"I guess," he says. "Maybe I'll give it a try some day."
Before long, the tour is ending. We take the elevator ride up. The lurching of the metal box makes me feel unsteady and queasy, and the temptation to lean against Peeta's side is strong, but I refrain, knowing that would be presumptuous.
Out in the sunlight, there are streaks of coal dust on all of my classmates. The marks on Peeta's face jar me. It is a sight I have never seen, and that will likely never be true. He was never destined for the mines, and the reaping coming up will doubly ensure this reality.
As the teacher debriefs us and gets us ready to walk back to the school, I feel some sense of urgency, as if my time with Peeta is nearing an end.
I feel an urge to warn him. That the reaping will be bad luck for both of us. It will intertwine our fates, and nothing can stop it. I desire to confess to him, but I know that cannot happen.
Peeta rests a hand on my arm.
"Everything alright?" he asks me.
His eyes are on my hands. They are shaking. I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to control them, shrugging off his touch.
"Just jarring, sometimes, to come back up into the sunlight," I say.
"It is, isn't it?" he says, accepting my explanation.
We walk towards the school. Once we get back, there will be a brief lecture, and then we will be let out for the day. This will mean back to home and the chores for me, and for Peeta it will mean going to work.
"Maybe you could show me some time," I say. "How you decorate the cakes?"
Peeta looks surprised.
"You'd want to watch that?" he asks.
I know this is an odd request, but it is the only thing, the only excuse, I could think of to steal more time with him before the reaping.
"It's an impressive skill," I say, shrugging. "My little sister, Prim, loves to look at them when they're on display in the window. Maybe if you show me, I will be able to make her something for her twelfth birthday that's coming up."
Peeta does not respond immediately. I look over at him. He is frowning.
"Her twelfth, already?" he says. His tone betrays where his thoughts had gone.
The Hunger Games.
"Yeah," I say. "Even more reason to make it special."
"Sure," he says. "I'll show you some time."
It is a start.