"He hopes despite despair, but it's him who needs a prayer.

He's living with the dead.

He's so cool. He's so tough.

He'd bet his life on tomorrow.

But doesn't he know life is nothing but sorrow?"

Annie Cresta isn't entirely sure that she's accepted the inevitability of living. For so long, every motion she made, every breath she drew into her lungs, was apart of a string of necessary actions that would eventually lead her to the cool embrace of oblivion. For so long, she was so prepared for her life to end that living wasn't exactly on her radar. Living, the motions of day-to-day life, wasn't a gift so much as it was a roadblock.

And now, things are…different. Not better. Not exactly. Maybe she'll never be better. But she's trying. Trying to live.

This is a realization that strikes her squarely between the eyes as she sits in her last period class, waiting to meet Finnick for a make-up study session that her history teacher arranged with him. All day, her mind has been a flurry of confused rollercoaster twirls and tilts as she tries to piece together just what happened with him this morning.

He cornered her in the hallway and acted…kind enough to her. It isn't much by way of a gesture, nor is it something that any normal person would consider extraordinary.

But Annie Cresta hasn't been paid many kindnesses by this world or its people. Especially not by people like Finnick. And so she spends the rest of the day in troubled thought, in concerned thought, in secretly hopeful thought as her mind and soul are caught somewhere between the land of the living and the quiet march of one who has condemned herself to death.

Is he making fun of me and I am just too delusional to see it? What if I made the whole thing up in my head? What if Finnick has never spoken to me at all and I'm just…crazier than I ever thought? What if he is doing this because feels sorry for me? What if he's playing some sort of trick on me? He couldn't possibly want to be around me. Not for real. Not for real. You aren't good enough for anyone's time, Annie. Especially not for a guy like Finnick. Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid.

Those angry, bitter voices creep in between her ears, grinding any hopeful whisper in the back of her mind that he might have spoken to her for all of the right reasons into dust as she trudges to her locker.

Class has been over for some time now. She sat in her desk in her last period class long after the dismissal bell rang, pretending to read something as students bolted from the room and her teacher shuffled papers and pretended not to be concerned at the distant look in Annie's downturned eyes. Annie prefers the halls when they are empty. The fewer eyes around her, the fewer eyes she feels are judging her, hating her, wishing she would disappear. When she is the only one walking the lonely halls, her own eyes are the only ones that can do that.

So, she waits out the crowds and when she is certain they have dissolved into the quiet obscurity of their own lives, she braves the hallways, wanting nothing more than to return to her own house and fall asleep in her favorite arm chair and forget that this day, that whatever that whole Finnick Odair thing was, will be forgotten and erased from her memory by morning.

She stands outside of the doors of the library for a few minutes. Truly, she tries to muster up the courage to just take the step inside. Thisissomekindofjokethereisnowayfinnickwouldwillinglyspendtimewithyouyoushouldknowbetteranniedontbestupidbeseriousthiscouldn'tberealwhatsortofpersonwouldwanttospendtimewithsomeonelikeyouhehasplentyofsaneandnormalfriendsyoucan'tevenmakeitthroughthedaywithoutanepisodeandyouthinkhesgoingtowillinglyspendafewhourswithyouyouareworthlessandyoudonthaveaclueyoushouldgohomeandhopeheneverwasteshistimeonyouagain...

Tomorrow will be better, she tries to convince herself. Tomorrow will be better.

But tears slide down her cheeks and the racket in her mind deafens her to any hope of saving tonight. She turns away from the library door and starts home. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will be better.

Finnick waits at the library until they close. If the spines of the books surrounding him could talk, they would speak volumes worth on the sadness in his eyes when he realizes she is not coming. And they would speak tomes on the determined look he draws upon himself when he finally gathers the strength to leave the building.

The next morning, the Finnick Odair situation is not forgotten to Annie, but she drags herself out of bed and makes the long, solemn walk to school on her own, stepping into the front door with tender, nervous steps as she does every morning, which is victory enough for her. Anxiously, she walks toward her locker, playing with her small rope keychain, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger until the skin is raw. Annie walks and walks, tracing the familiar path to her locker, waiting for those familiar jagged words drawn on her locker to flag her down and remind her that it is hers.

Keeping her head bowed to the ground and her eyes not leaving the cheap linoleum, she walks the same thirty-seven steps from the entrance to the building to her locker, her feet laying in the same patterns it has walked all year. Her muscle memory takes her to her locker, where she turns toward the metal monstrosity and looks up for the first time since leaving her house. What she finds makes her think she has walked into a dream.

Her locker has been painted.

Her locker has been painted.

Her locker has been painted. She looks up at the silver square bearing her lock proudly, and she breathes in lungs full of air. She can smell dizzying scent of fresh fumes. Annie's eyes furrow and she leans in closer, scrutinizing the smooth surface as if waiting for the graffiti of slurs and insults that only yesterday screamed out at her to come popping out from behind the new facade. There is not one "crazy Cresta" scribble, not one "you should have tried harder" scrawl. Her locker looks just like everyone else's.

It's a small comfort. It isn't much, really. But...

But it is a comfort all the same. It is something all the same.

People stare as they pass her, watching the crazy girl stare at her locker as though it would open up and reveal the secrets of the universe. No one will ever know, no one will ever understand what this moment means to Annie. And Annie is alright with that. This is something, a secret and small victory, that she will hold to herself so it can never be corrupted. A moment for her and no one else. She smiles. A real smile. A lightness caresses her bones. Looking at her locker, a locker that has been fixed by someone, a locker that proves that someone is looking out for her, is the equivalent of a full night's sleep. Looking at it is a deep breath.

Annie could have stood there for an eternity. If she had her way, she would live in that moment forever, looking up at a fresh start, a new beginning. But then, those voices come into her head like wicked eels. Who would do this for you? What's the angle? Is someone trying to trick you?

It doesn't take much for Annie to succumb to the sounds of those questions. Suddenly feeling very stupid indeed for not considering that this could be a mean trick sooner, she frantically turns her head over her left shoulder, looking for who it is. What gaggle of boys are waiting for her to open her locker and get a face full of mud or a hundred letters detailing how she should have tried harder to kill herself? But on her left, no one is looking at her. No one waiting for her to fall into whatever trap she imagines she's falling into.

Then, she turns to her right.

Standing further down the hall, waiting against the opposite wall, Finnick stands, looking-without reservation- squarely at her. One hand holding onto the strap of the black backpack slung over his shoulder, the fingers of his other hand shoved in his pocket, the young man looks at her with an expression she can only describe as uncertain. Annie can almost envision clouds from a storm that may never come brewing around his head, swirling in circles like a crown of unfulfilled possibility. She knows he must have done it. He must have gotten the graffiti covered.

Finnick is holding his breath, though Annie can't see that, waiting for her reaction. It wasn't difficult to get the locker painted. A few words and smiles planted in the right places in the front office and suddenly all traces of the Crazy Cresta graffiti is gone. After her blowing him off again the night before, there was a weight in his chest that he knew he could not rid himself of until he figured out a way to show her that she was worth the trouble. That she isn't just the crazy girl.

He isn't sure the message has landed when she wades through the sea of students' bodies to meet him across the hall. One of her hands is frantically rubbing that key chain of hers and the other is folded across her chest, and she stares down at the floor. She musters up all of her bravery to speak; it is a feat that seemed so easy yesterday but now feels monumentally out of her depth. Finnick holds his breath once more, waiting for her to say something that will either hurt or reassure him. When she finally finds the tongue to mutter out words, he barely catches them.

"Thank you," she whispers.

It isn't enough for what he's done for her, she thinks. But it's all she has to offer him right now. It is as much as her fragile spirit will allow for at the moment. Finnick struggles with the concept of her gratitude. It's something that should have been done long before now. Something that someone should have stepped up and done for her long ago.

"For what?" Finnick replies, not realizing the implication of such a question.

Annie's head snaps up from the floor as she believes she's made some sort of mistake. Anxiety shakes her until an apology falls out and she tries to turn her back and walk away.

"Uh- Nothing. Nothing. It was stupid," she says, gulping hard before turning on her heel, "I'm sorry."

It isn't like Finnick to let her run away-not so easily. Digging into his pocket, he produces a pack of white square cards with perfectly inked information on them, bound by a rubber band. He steps easily in front of Annie's retreating body and offers them to her. He wants to... He is trying to... Well, if someone would ask him right now why he is making such an effort, he would probably have to say that he's doing this because he went to sleep last night thinking of how long this girl must have been feeling like this, and how long he has walked the same halls as her without ever doing something about it. He would say something about making up for lost time. He sighs and holds out the cards for her to take, not taking stock of his emotions, not wondering why in the world he's going to the trouble for someone who might be beyond his help.

"Listen, I found these in my room yesterday. History flash cards," he explains, his eyes softening as her fingers uncurl from their shaking grip on the strap of her bag and taking the cards from him, "Thought they might help you out?"

"Yeah. Thanks," she says, nodding once.

"And Annie?" Finnick prods.

She acknowledges him by turning those abrupt eyes upon him. And he smiles.

"I like hanging out at the library. Maybe I'll see you around there some time?"

He walks away with a casual grace, and Annie can only think to herself... Tomorrow is better.