maysilee did not want to admit it.

of course she didn't. what would her family think? she had standards to uphold. a shop to run.

but, my word, she couldn't fight it anymore.

she liked you. you, the free spirited, rebellious breath of fresh air through district twelve. you're a part of the covey, and she swears nothing could tie you down.

she doesn't just like you. she adores you. she admires you. you won't take no for an answer, and that sweet, melodic voice of yours is to die for.

would her mother kill her for liking someone from the covey? yes. would her mother double kill her for liking a girl? absolutely.

she isn't one for being told what to do, however. and neither are you.

so here she is, leaning up against a tree in the meadow outside of twelve, listen to you pluck at your guitar, handcrafted by your uncles, tam amber and clerk carmine.

you look so at home here. your slowly, flowery dress, under the shade of the great big tree, with the soft spring hair running past both of you.

her legs itch from the grass, and her eyes sting a bit from the pollen. not that she tells you, 'cause you'd probably just laugh in her face. even though maysilee is a lot better off than you, she can't help but feel green with envy, sometimes.

she doesn't want to feel jealous! you're her best friend, and she might see you as a little bit more, but she just thinks you're so much better than her. you're outspoken, beautiful, and sweet, and she's... none of those things.

her outspokenness tips over to the edge of arrogance. her beauty is seen as superiority. and everyone knows she doesn't possess a single sweet bone in her body.

she listens to the soft tones of the guitar drift through with the spring breeze, and she tries to let all her troubles melt away. her mother, her jealousy, her tiny crush on you, and the reaping in a few months.

“that a new song?” she asks, tucking her blonde hair behind her hair, making her stacked jewelry jingle on her wrists.