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The star-crossed lovers

Suzanne Collins

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Suzanne Collins
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: August 10
Executive Producer
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Hartford
Connecticut
Suzanne Marie Collins
Suzanne Collins
Crossed
Lovers
Star
Stars

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You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right? All right, he whispers.
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I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. “No, don’t let go of me,” he says.
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I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage.
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They don't know that I'm already asking for the moon.
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I know. I was hoping, I say. Exactly. Because you're desperate, says Haymitch. I don't argue because, of course, he's right.
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Whenever I write a story, I hope it appeals to both boys and girls.
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Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart.
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Please feel free to take this personally.
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Never underestimate the power of a brillian stylist.
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Cleaning me up is just a preliminary step to determining my new look. With my acid-damaged hair, sunburned skin, and ugly scars, the prep team has to make me pretty and then damage, burn, and scare me in a more attractive way.
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But in my head I can hear Haymitch's smug, if slightly exasperated, words: Yes, that's what I'm looking for, sweetheart.
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Then Octavia drops to her knees, rubs the hem of a skirt against her cheek, and burst into tears. It's been so long, she gasps, since I've seen anything pretty.
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My nightmares are usually about losing you. I'm okay once I realize you're here.
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If he wants me broken, then I will have to be whole.
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Ally. Peeta says the words slowly, tasting it. Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out. The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up.
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Something inside me shuts down and I'm too numb to feel anything. It's like watching complete strangers in another Hunger Games. But I do notice they omit the part where I covered her in flowers. Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion.
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I drink in his wholeness, the soudness of his body and mind. It runs through me like the morphling they give me in the hospital, dulling the pain of the last weeks.
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Got it, I say. Did you tell Peeta this? Don't have to, says Haymitch. He's already there.
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Even in war there should be lines you didn't cross.
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