You find yourself telling her that you don't want to forget, and it's almost the truth. Because there are so many things you'd like to forget, so many things, and you're not even sure what is and isn't one of them anymore.
Her smile, just after the Games, at the interviews. The way her lips had an unnatural curve to them, the way that as she blinked (artificial eyelashes seeming to become a bit less uniform, simply by the ordinary action of closing her eyes for less than a second), there wasn't any of the happiness she spoke of in her eyes. The happiest person alive, she told them, even though you couldn't see anything in her expression to lead you to believe it. And, well, how could anyone?

You smiled anyway, and tried to pretend that there was a gleam in her eyes, or that the cameras just made her nervous.

You want to forget that, forget that it almost made you love her more. Because what kind of person does that make you anyway?

But her smile, during the Games, just for a few seconds, the look of almost childlike joy on her face when you were in the cave together, when you finally felt you had a chance.

You don't want to forget that, the way that her eyes shone in a way you haven't seen for so, so long.

You can't imagine what it would be like, to forget the gleam in her eyes, even though she almost seemed to be fighting it—the way that the tried to conceal it somehow, the way she pressed her lips together in some failed attempt to hide her happiness.

You can't forget that.

But there's just so much that you need to leave behind.

You've killed now.

You're not a killer, someone told you. You don't remember who. Maybe it was her, though if it was, you doubt she meant it. (You wouldn't believe it either way. You want to, but you can't. Not when you've taken someone else's life. Someone no older than yourself. If you're not a killer, what are you?)

Really, you just don't want to forget yourself.

But, honestly, your identity seems like the easiest thing to lose at the moment.

She was gone. You don't remember why, just that you said she shouldn't, that you should.

She ignored you. You weren't surprised.

You waited for her.

Until you noticed it. The slip of paper—damp and slightly discolored, with bleeding ink.

Ink. Words. Communication.

You had to look. The cameras couldn't have been on you anyway. Why would they care about a boy sitting in a cave anyway? Without Katniss, what were you? Just another survivor at this point and even that wasn't much. What had you ever done to win the audience's attention before this? Not enough to win any sponsors. Why would they care now?

Maybe they would, considering what it said.

You didn't understand at first. What it meant. Why Katniss had gotten it, why she hadn't mentioned it to you.

It is a television program, after all. And it turned out that there were some exceptionally good actors this season.

And, oh, with that touch of romance, well, who wouldn't enjoy that? Who wouldn't buy into that?

You certainly did.

And when she came back, you pretended like nothing had happened. And, well, what had? Because it still hadn't quite become an act, not for you. (It still hasn't, you realize.)

So she smiled at you in the same insincere way that had gone unnoticed by you until so very recently, and you smiled back and the romance continued and you almost fooled yourself into thinking it was true, just for a few seconds before you remember what it's all for.

You wanted to forget. You still do, even though you know that it's wrong.

But you can't, not with every sincere word she's ever spoken, not with those rare true smiles, not with her head upon your shoulder as you're leaving the Capitol, cameras undoubtedly following you. (After all, why else would she bother?)

And when you get home, and she sees Prim, her whole face lights up with the same look of childlike glee from before, in the cave, when it was real and there was so much hope (too much).

And for some reason you don't quite know, you find yourself making a silent promise not to forget a second of this—any of it.

AN: So I guess my way of coping with end-of-year stress is writing Peeta/Katniss...? I'm sorry to everyone who reads the quotes fic (or any fic, but the quotes one was supposed to be updated long ago), but I can't seem to be writing anything for the Potter fandom that fully pleases me. Thanks for reading.