It took her weeks to get to the point where she doesn’t cower at the sight of me. Every look she gives me burns like a hot knife to the heart; because I realise that the distrust and hostility that the Capitol planted in her isn’t really so dissimilar to how she’s always looked at me. And I’ll never know, now, how she really felt, because she no longer knows. She no longer feels anything but fear and anger. I touch the bruises on my neck, and remember the unyielding strength and conviction with which she tried to kill me. I wonder - had we been alone - if I would’ve just lain there, unmoving, and let her. She stares at me with distrust, restrained and tense, and says quietly they say you loved me a lot. I close my eyes, and reply I do.