Here's the winning contest entry, written by Amaranth Briar's brilliant creator, Nightfall12.

Love.

It's probably the only thing that got me into this stupid mess.

I mean, they say it's blind — not that I would know who they are, but that won't stop me from them credit.

They're right, after all.

You never know what a person is like until you've lived with them for a year or two, spent three hundred and sixty five days listening to the crap they want — no need — you to believe. At first, they tell you what you want to hear (because it would be stupid to say anything else), and then you take everything — every single compliment about your eyes or that one-time declaration of love — at face-value, because they would never ever lie to you —that's blasphemy at it's finest. A point your best friend shouldn't make. That would make the aforementioned friend a jealous liar. . . definitely not someone who is looking out for your well-being.

Certainly not someone who cares about you.

Who am I kidding?

This isn't about you or them.

This is about me and. . . him.

Love — or stupidity, depending on how you look at it — is the very reason I'm standing here, listening to the tirade of the century. This has to be the biggest lecture since the time Sabrina Wolfe got caught drinking hard liquor with her best friend, Freya Marks — and Cam and I could hear their parents screeching at them from the other side of Sector 2.

"I honestly didn't think it could get any worse. . . " Mother says, rubbing her temples.

"Really?" Father asks, voice incredulous. "I did. How could you expect anything less?"

I bite my tongue. Don't say anything insulting. You need their help. I avert my eyes from their stern gazes. I see Toby looking at me, confusion brimming in his eyes. Hannalyn makes eye contact with me. Her expression is made up of three parts shock and two parts anger. I can't say I'm surprised, either. She has always been the wiser of Crane Briars' two daughters. Hannalyn would never have done what I did; she knows better. That, and she's not nearly as arrogant as I am.

My mother sighs loudly. "That boy was nothing but trouble, Amaranth Lydia, I told you that. . ."

God, she's using my middle name now — this is worse than I thought.

"Didn't I tell her that, Crane?"

"Yes, Lucinda, you did."

And first names in sentences that don't need to have them addressed. Great.

"Are you guys talking about Carson?" Toby asks from his spot by the family portrait.

Hannalyn smacks him in the back of the head. "Toby!"

I try to take advantage of my parents' lack of attention. I briefly consider bolting out the door, before I actually look at the picture above my brother's head.

My mother and father were proud and Toby was innocent, still oblivious to the horror of the End Trials. I looked happy. Outgoing. My hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. I was sitting next to a seventeen year old Hannalyn, her arm positioned over my shoulder. Even then she looked more sensible than the sixteen year old version of myself. Probably even now, too. And she's younger in that photograph than I am now.

I'm eighteen as of two months ago.

Happy Birthday to me.

Not that anybody bothered to send me a card, not even Car — he hadn't had the decency to get me anything, not even a gift. Some boyfriend he was.

'Yup," my dad informs Toby.

"Where is he?" Toby's eyes light up. He's always thought of Carson as an older brother of sorts.

Dad's face turns snide. "I don't know, son. Why don't you ask you sister?"

My brother looks at me expectantly.

That's a low blow, even for my father, who has hated me since I left.

"Not. With. Me," I tell Toby, and the fury in my eyes keeps him from adding to my humiliation.

"Well, where is it, then?" Mother speaks the word "it" with pure disgust.

"She's not an it," I say defiantly, or as close as I can get to defiance without ruining my chances of re-gaining my place at the dinner table. "She is with Cam." I don't even bother to add that her name is Hope. They won't listen.

"Cam?" It's Hannalyn who expresses surprise this time.

I nod.

I went to his house first —l ike I'd come back home if I had any other choice. He answered the door, saw me, and almost broke my nose when he slammed the door in my face, and then he opened it again. Thank God. I told him how sorry I was and how much I needed him. He didn't notice her right away, but I was able to convince him to let me inside. And then, when he did get the entire picture, he was mad. Totally peeved. More so at the idiot than me, but I didn't get let off the hook. And somehow, he conned me into coming here for help, saying that he'd watch her until I was done with admitting I was wrong.

"He must've been happy to see you, Ranth," Hannalyn tells me halfheartedly.

Yeah, tell that to my nose.

Toby jumps at the chance to re-join the conversation. "Yeah! A few months ago, I saw him at the Reaping, and I think he was crying!"

"Not over me."

"Uh-huh! I heard his mom telling Adrian's mom that he was so upset when you left with Carson and she said that you were a —"

"Toby!" A person would think that, given the subject matter, my parents would make my siblings leave the room. Especially Toby. Normal parental units would scrub their adolescent son's brain with bleach, making sure that no traces of this discussion tarnished his innocent (partially naive) mind. But no, my nineteen year old sister scolds him instead.

Stellar parenting guys, you two should write a book.

I'm tempted to ask him what I was called, but I decide I don't really want to know. It's obvious that Cameron's mother doesn't hold me in the same high regard as she did before I fled to a secluded area near Sector 3 — I'm not fond of that place, and I've spent the past few days wondering why I did any of this anyway.

I hate the answer.

"And who is 'she'?" Toby questions.

I have clearly missed something. "What are you talking about?"

"Mom called her an 'it' and you said 'she'. Who is it?" Toby asks, enunciating every word.

Apparently, I'm stupid now.

My father's eyes bore into the side of my head; it's like they're lasers or something. "Tell him, Amaranth."

"Hope," I say quietly. "We're talking about Hope."

"Who is. . ." Dad prompts.

"Your niece," I tell my little brotherv—who, really, isn't so little anymorev—because without her with me it's nearly impossible to say that other word, no matter how much I love her.

Sure, this is all completely real. I'm in Sector 2 and he's somewhere else, in a place where he won't have to lie anymore. He won't have to tell me he loves me and pretend to mean it. He won't have to look at her, either, and pretend to care. And to think, I had been so shocked when he left, giving me a poorly-written note as an explanation. All those months I thought he was happyv—vthat he loved us. That he wanted all of it, when he never asked for her or even me.

Love isn't anything at all.

Trust is often blown to pieces.

"Well, why is she with Cameron instead of Carson?"

"Don't worry about it," I mutter, turning to face Dad. "Are you going to let me come back home?"

He glances at Mom for a moment, who nods solemnly and looks at me with grave eyes.

"Do you have any idea what you've put us through?" She points to herself and circles around the entire room. "You left for months and now you come back with. . . Hope," she says the name with reluctance, "and expect us to take both of you in. What was going through your head when all of this happened?"

Time for some serious self-degradation. "I was thinking that I acted like a m-moron, and I should have thought over before I ran away and I sh-should have known that Car — he wasn't a good person."

"How old is she?"

"Ten months. So? Can we live here or not?"

And by this I also mean Do you want to meet her?

Dad is obviously fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes," he says, rubbing his forehead. "Tell Cam to bring her over."

When my (ex) best friend comes to the door, guilt overwhelms me again. How could I have left him here? How could I have forgotten about him so easily? In truth, I know he's always in the back of my head, acting as the voice of reason, but he didn't matter at the time.

Hope seems to like him — she isn't screaming the way she did whenever Carson held her.

There it is: The name I have refused to even think about since he ditched us. And I notice that there's a difference. I never loved Carson the way I do Cam. I think I was in love with the idea of Carson — not the guy himself. And Hope — she's the only reason I came back. I would have stayed in Sector 3, as to not harm my pride, if she didn't exist.

Love is something that is real because of her and I will do everything I can to make sure it stays that way.

And once this is uploaded, it will officially conclude all uploads for this story! Yay!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, but don't give me any credit whatsoever - it all goes to Nightfall12.

Again, keep an eye out for my next Hunger Games fic, 'Flames Forevermore'.

Peace!

-Bree