At twelve years old, Tim had known he would one day be reaped.

It had been a feeling that would stay with him for the following four years, lingering in the back of his mind and never truly disappearing. He had been fine when they had called his name, on a day so cold and unforgiving, and he had been fine as he had approached the stage.

(Had anybody looked closer, they would have how his hands had trembled, how his lips had quivered. No one called his name, no one wailed in despair— there was no point in doing so.)

A young child had been reaped shortly after him. Barely twelve years old, someone far too young to face the cruelties of the Games. His heart had broken when the child had burst into tears, terrified and desperately clutching onto the nearest stranger, wailing for their parents.

He remembered thinking, they are still so young. He remembered thinking, I'm still young, too.

But the child had never reached the stage, for an arm had shot into the air and a familiar, broken voice had called out, "I volunteer as tribute!"

Tim remembered feeling like he had been doused in a bucket of icy water when you, his best friend, had been brought to the stage by impatient Peacekeepers, your name announced shortly thereafter. He remembered not being able to look you in the eye, even when you had taken his hand and given it a squeeze.

He regretted not squeezing back, because now it felt like he was too late to offer you any comfort. Now, it was the day before the Games, his last guaranteed hours of life, and all he could do was regret not comforting you like you had comforted him.

"We're going to die," he murmured, gaze fixated on the sky outside his window. It was near midnight, far too late for either of them to be up, but the sky had never shone with brighter stars. He wondered if it was all an illusion, to soothe the tributes that would soon die, but he knew the Capitol would never be so kind.

It was still a few hours left until the Games, but it felt like he had already failed.