‘Always.’ In the twilight of morphling, Peeta whispers the word and I go searching for him. It’s a gauzy, violet-tinted world, with no hard edges, and many places to hide. I push through cloud banks, follow faint tracks, catch the scent of cinnamon, of dill. Once I feel his hand on my cheek and try to trap it, but it dissolves like mist through my fingers.
Even after Katniss gets shot on live television, she’s still thinking of Peeta. She’s always thinking of Peeta. (via frostingpeetaswounds)