"Slowly, as I would with a wounded animal, my hand stretches out and brushes a wave of hair from his forehead. He freezes at my touch, but doesn‘t recoil. So I continue to gently smooth
back his hair. It‘s the first time I have voluntarily touched him since the last arena.
“You‘re still trying to protect me. Real or not real,” he whispers.
“Real,” I answer. It seems to require more explanation. “Because that‘s what you and I do. Protect each other.” After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.”
you’ve deserved so much more than this.
And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realised how much I don’t want him to die. And it’s not about the sponsors. And it’s not about what will happen back home. And it’s not just that I don’t want to be alone. It’s him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.
If you and Jennifer were throwing in a real arena who will survive ? (x)
The lying, the devil, the silence
Embracing the world on the edge
hot people are always hotter when you find out how nice they are