A.N. Guys look at how cute my new sunglasses are! Ahh so in love with them.

When the ceiling begins to crumble, I find comfort in Peeta's shirt and Rye's hand. His arm around me is comforting, but I can't deny the intense longing I feel for Peeta. I want it to be Peeta's arm around me. I want it to be Peeta's voice I hear whispering reassurances in my ear.

I just want Peeta.

Okay, I know I'm irresistible but you have to be able to be away from me for more than an hour.

Another bomb shakes the bunker, causing another round of fearful shrieks and ragged breaths. The whimper of a baby makes my heart clinch and wrap my arms tighter around my stomach. I even hear a gleeful laugh, the kind of laugh that comes from one who is insane.

The noises around me, coupled with the recurring bombs, have me shaking with the need to do something. In every single dangerous, life-threatening situation I've been in, I've always had the ability to do something about it. Fight back. Run away.

Down here, there's no one for me to fight, and there's nowhere for me to run.

"They're probably bunker missiles." Rye has hardly stopped talking since the bombing began. Whether it comforts him or he thinks it comforts me is unknown, but I haven't told him to shut up yet, so I guess he's taken that as his cue to keep talking. Honestly, I don't really mind. It reminds me of Peeta. "We learned about them during the orientation for new citizens," he continues. "They're designed to penetrate deep in the ground before they go off. Because there's no point in bombing 13 on the surface anymore." Rye pauses, and I know he has a poor excuse for a smile on his face as he adds, "Of course. You would know this too if you went to your classes, but you never do anything you're told."

And that's just one thing I love about you.

My lips almost turn up in a smile at the thought of Peeta telling me the same thing. We fall into silence until it's broken by President Coin, announcing over the audio system that Peeta was, in fact, correct. "Apparently, Peeta Mellark's information was sound and we owe him a great debt of gratitude. Sensors indicate the first missiles were not nuclear, but very powerful. We expect more will follow. For the duration of the attack, citizens are to stay in their assigned areas unless otherwise notified."

For the next three days, we're huddled in the bunker, which occasionally shakes with the force of the Capitol bombs. We're allowed to go to the bathroom and brush our teeth in groups and receive three meager rations a day. Just enough to keep you alive.

Rye spends nearly all of his time in my space with me. Silence pervades the space the majority of the time, but that doesn't bother us. Words are not necessarily what we want. Just silently supporting the other, merely by being present, is enough. There's not much to say anyway. Our thoughts are with Peeta, wondering if he's dead or alive.

Did his warning cost him his life?

The question taunts my mind mercilessly. I'm haunted by my nightmarish imaginings, all of the frightening scenes running on a constant loop before my mind's eye. I shut my eyes tightly, as if I could force the images away, but it doesn't work. Is Peeta still fighting? Or is my mother right? Has his strength run out? Can his body take no more? Has Snow decided that Peeta is no longer needed?

No. No, my mother is wrong. She has to be. She can't be right. Peeta can't die. He can't. He wouldn't do that to me. He wouldn't leave me alone. He wouldn't deny himself the joy of watching his child grow up. Peeta wouldn't do that.

On the third morning, I make my way over to Prim's cabin and sit quietly with her. "How are you?" Prim asks finally, breaking the silence. "And don't say you're fine. We both know you're not."

I sigh heavily, hating the moisture that wells in my eyes. "I'm scared for him, Prim," I admit softly, before I acknowledge the fear that has been haunting me ever since I saw Peeta's blood splatter the floor of the Capitol's film room. "They might kill him for this."

My voice is a tremulous whisper as I force back my sobs. I've cried myself to sleep every night, the image of the red-stained white floor imprinted in my mind. "I saw him, Prim. I saw the look in his eyes. He thought it was a possibility. He thought that they might kill him for warning us . . . but he told us about the bombing anyway. And now . . ." I trail off as my tears begin to slip from my eyes, my sobs building in my throat. "And now they might have . . . he could be . . ." The sobs finally escape me, causing me to be unable to continue.

Prim immediately begins to console me, rubbing a soothing hand on my back and whispering reassurances. I try to believe her. I try to believe her when she says that Peeta isn't dead. I want to believe her desperately. I'm desperate, holding on to my last hope. My last unfailing hope that Peeta is surviving for me and the baby like Greasy Sae said. That he's living because he has something to live for.

Because Peeta dying is simply not possible.

He can't die.

Traitorously, my mind dredges up a memory. A steaming hot arena surrounded by dense greenery. Peeta's knife swinging down and hitting the force field, blasting him backward. His body landing lifelessly on the ground. Placing my fingers over his lips only to feel no breath. Placing my head on his chest only to feel no heartbeat.

Peeta has died before. For a brief few minutes, he left me alone to survive the arena, lead a rebellion, and raise our child alone.

But he came back. He came back because I'd asked him to.

Only because you said please.

"Katniss." Prim's voice cuts through the memory, distorting it. When I blink back my tears, I see her expression—worried, but confident. "Katniss, listen to me. Breathe, okay? Deep breaths." I hate that I'm so weepy, that I can almost cry on cue these days because of pregnancy hormones. Not to mention the stress that I'm under, but nonetheless I focus on Prim's face, breathing with her, until my tears have ceased to fall and I'm relatively calm.

Only then does Prim continue. "I don't think Snow will kill Peeta," she says surely. "If he does, he won't have anyone left you want. He won't have any way to hurt you."

The logic is cruel, but true.

"What will they do to him?" I ask and images of Peeta being beaten flood through my mind.

Prim looks at me and takes my hand before speaking. "Whatever it takes to break you, until you can hardly stand on your own." I choke down a sob and realize that prim is right. They're using him as bait to lure me in, because they know that Peeta is the only thing is this world I would risk my life for.

"You can't keep glueing yourself back together. You and I both know that the only person that holds you together isn't here right now."

"What are you saying, that I'm going to shatter into a million pieces?"

"I'm saying that you can only live with half of yourself for so long."

Gale thinks it's only a matter of time before I break and shatter into a million pieces, almost as if I'm a ticking time bomb. Maybe he's right, I'm cracked to the point of one more break and I'll be broken completely. Not able to understand what's going on around me, only able to hear Peeta's whispers kind of broken.

I'm breaking, but I'm not broken, not yet at least. I'm teetering on the edge.

My feet eventually wander over to Finnick. He's playing with his rope, tying knots swiftly and efficiently. When he hears my approach, he looks up and then pats a spot on his cot beside him. I take the seat offered, but Finnick doesn't strike up a conversation. He simply goes back to tying knots in his rope, which leaves me to my thoughts.

Peeta.

Too many images. Too many ghostly screams. Too many heart-wrenching memories. What will break me? No. No, I'm getting Peeta back. I'm getting him back. 13 will rescue him. I will make it happen because it's my one last desperate attempt to keep myself together. Because if I don't get Peeta back soon . . .

. . . you can only live with half of yourself for so long . . .

"Tell me about Annie."

Finnick's hands freeze, the half-finished knot in his fingers slipping from his grasp and falling onto the floor at his feet. I would normally feel guilty for shocking him so, but I'm being selfish. I need a distraction from my thoughts. Desperately.

"Anything," I continue. "How'd you meet? What made you fall for her? What's she like?"

Finnick gaps at me for a moment, like a fish out of water, before he swallows and looks at his feet. "She's beautiful," he admits softly. "And sweet and . . . innocent." He looks up at me, a sad, wry smile on his lips. "And yet, at the same time, she's the wisest person I know. I think it's just how she sees things, you know? She sees the simple things, things that you wouldn't normally spare a thought for, but she sees them and she makes sure that you do, too. She's just . . . a breath of fresh air."

We're silent for a few more minutes before Finnick suddenly turns to me, and I know by looking into his eyes that the somewhat normal Finnick I just spoke to has retreated back into the depths of his mind. Worry and fear begin to coalesce in his eyes as he pins me with his stare. "I love her, Katniss," he tells me sincerely, almost like a plea.

He quickly reaches down to pick his rope up off the floor, his fingers automatically beginning to manipulate it as he suddenly trains his eyes on the rope. "I try to distract myself, you know? Because I can't bear it. Obviously, I don't. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking . . ." He stops, because he must see the knowing in my eyes. I know exactly how he feels. "Best not give in to it," he tells me. "It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart."

Finnick would know.

For the rest of the day, I sit on my cot and focus my attention on the baby. I count the number of times I feel him moving around. I rub my stomach, as if to soothe him. I wonder what he'll look like. If he'll take after me or Peeta. Will he like to paint or will he like to hunt? Will he have my determination or Peeta's rationality? Will he have my cunning or Peeta's kindness?

Is he even a boy? What if he is a she?

I don't know why exactly, but I'm nearly positive that it's a boy. Call me crazy, but it's just a feeling I have. Maybe it's because I already lost our son, I need to know that I have a second chance with a little boy. The doctor told me it wasn't my fault, but I suppose I'll always have that nagging feeling in the back of mind that I failed.

When Boggs comes to get me for the propo we're filming, I sigh because the good memories of Peeta were finally coming back. After a series of hallways and ladders leading higher and higher, we finally reach a trap door. Boggs opens the latch and in the next few seconds, I'm standing in the middle of the forest.

Gale, Rye, Haymitch, Cressida, and the rest of the camera crew are already there. Immediately, I retreat from Boggs's side to stand by Haymitch. We begin to trek through the woods, and I take deep breaths of the clean air. It's only now when I'm in the open expanse of the forest that I realize just how much I truly detested the bunker. I let my fingers trail over the leaves that we pass that are within my reach and that's when I notice that some of them are starting to turn. Green fading into a variety of orange, red, and yellow. I turn to Haymitch. "What day is it?"

"First week of September," Haymitch says grimly, and I know why.

If it's the first week of September, Peeta has been in the Capitol's clutches for a more than a month. More than a month of torture. More  than a month of painfully approaching a death that seems so close and yet so far.

More than a month since I last felt his arms around me. More than a month since I last felt his lips on mine. More than a month since I felt whole.

. . . you can only live with half of yourself for long . . .

My breathing begins to quicken without my consent, as we continue to tread through the forest. Debris begins to litter our path, and only a minute later we come to our first crater. Thirty yards wide and I don't know how deep. All I see is a black pit. Darkness.

Trying to smother me . . .

. . .you can't keep glueing yourself back together . . .

My chest begins to hurt and I struggle to breath as Cressedia points to a rock for me to sit on. We all walk towards the justice building when Gale points out the roses that are scattered across the earth.

Dozens of red and pink roses. Not meant for one person, but for a pair of lovers.

"Don't touch them!" I yell and everyone stops and looks towards me. "They're for me."

I try to explain the roses to the others but they don't understand my fear based obsession with removing them. For all they know, they're just flowers that people give to one another.

"Okay let's try filming a few lines, Katniss." Cressedia tells me and I nod my head.

I can still smell the roses.

Cressida's back in position by the camera. "So, Katniss. You've survived the Capitol bombing of 13. How did it compare with what you experienced on the ground in 8?"

. . . Peeta . . .

"We were so far underground this time, there was no real danger." Not for me, anyway. "13's alive and well"—but not Peeta—"and so am . . ." My trembling evolves to full-fledged shaking. My eyes burn. My heart cracks.

I gasp.

"Try the line again," Cressida encourages. "13's alive and well and so am I."

"13's alive and . . ." I can still smell the roses. Death. "13's alive and well and . . ."

I'll do anything for you

Peeta, you can't die.

"Katniss, just this one line and you're done today. I promise," Cressida says gently. "13's alive and well and so am I."

I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm myself just enough to say the line and be done with it. Just say the line, be the Mockingjay, and then be done for the day. Be the Mockingjay.

But . . .

Every step I take as the Mockingjay is just one more tortuous second for Peeta. All this time, I've been doing this to get him back, but every time I strike as the Mockingjay, Peeta is punished. I'm hurting him. I'm the one responsible. He's being tortured because of me. It's all my fault.

I have been helping the Capitol kill Peeta.

. . . You can only live with half of yourself for so long . . .

"Come on, Katniss," Cressida encourages. "Just that one line."

I open my mouth to say something. Anything. But all that escapes me is a choked gasp. My body shivers with despair. My eyes burn with tears as a sob rips through my throat, and I collapse, falling to my knees due to the shattering pain of my heart.

I'm broken.

A.N. Holy cow this took so long to get out here and I'm so sorry, but to make up for that, I made the chapter extra long! But OMG guys guess who is COMING BACK NEXT CHAPTER!!!! AHHHHH, ill see you guys then!