“Hey, look at this!” He holds up a glistening, perfect pearl about the size of a pea. “You know, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls,” he says earnestly to Finnick. “No, it doesn’t,” says Finnick dismissively. But I crack up, remembering that’s how a clueless Effie Trinket presented us to the people of the Capitol last year, before anyone knew us. As coal pressured into pearls by our weighty existence. Beauty that arose out of pain.
“We had to save you because you’re the mockingjay, Katniss,” says Plutarch. “While you live, the revolution lives.”
Everything inside me screams for just one more kiss, one more word, one more glance, one more.