The Boy with the Bread is slipping away. This is entirely my fault, but it's true. There used to be a time when we would stave off the nightmares together, but this feels more like the time when we returned home from the first arena. When Peeta was angry at me, but for a different reason.

I'll add it to the list of words I use to figure you out.

This is somewhere in-between.

"It was his bomb," the words are out before I can retract them, and I realize how stupid it was to say that when Gale could wake up at any moment. I get up anyways, moving towards him so I can lower my voice, although it doesn't stop the words from pouring out. "His bomb that killed her. I can't prove it but I'll always be thinking it," Gale said so himself. It's too small in this room, too stuffy and I can't breathe with the tight feeling in my chest that always comes up when I think of Prim.

"I can't stay here," I tell him, before running out less than gracefully, but does it really matter?