[She has to look away. To curl tighter in on herself.
It's safer alone. It's safer to be the Career. To not admit to wanting to bury herself in his arms, let him hold her and protect her from the places her mind goes.
She wants to tell him everything. Every fear and nightmare and secret. Killing Twelve. Being terrified of Twelve's allies. Everything.
But she can't.]
Because there isn't a together. Not for us. You know that, Cato. We both do.
[She wants him to go to sleep. She wants to go out the window. She wants to find a way to make her chest stop feeling like its trying to collapse in on itself. She wants to scream.]
We're looking out for ourselves. Just ourselves. We're not looking out for each other. [But those wounds on her tell a different story.] We don't expect anything; we don't owe anything. Whatever happens to us, it's our own fault. Not each other's.
[A sixteen-year-old who can't forgive a passive betrayal. She would've forgiven a sword slash to her head or back. Clove would have met it with a fierce fight. But she can't forgive herself for dying screaming for his help, and she can't forgive him for letting her die like that. For not being close enough to help when she let herself believe he would be.]
no subject
[She has to look away. To curl tighter in on herself.
It's safer alone. It's safer to be the Career. To not admit to wanting to bury herself in his arms, let him hold her and protect her from the places her mind goes.
She wants to tell him everything. Every fear and nightmare and secret. Killing Twelve. Being terrified of Twelve's allies. Everything.
But she can't.]
Because there isn't a together. Not for us. You know that, Cato. We both do.
[She wants him to go to sleep. She wants to go out the window. She wants to find a way to make her chest stop feeling like its trying to collapse in on itself. She wants to scream.]
We're looking out for ourselves. Just ourselves. We're not looking out for each other. [But those wounds on her tell a different story.] We don't expect anything; we don't owe anything. Whatever happens to us, it's our own fault. Not each other's.
[A sixteen-year-old who can't forgive a passive betrayal. She would've forgiven a sword slash to her head or back. Clove would have met it with a fierce fight. But she can't forgive herself for dying screaming for his help, and she can't forgive him for letting her die like that. For not being close enough to help when she let herself believe he would be.]
That's how we are.