An impulse lit bright and fleeting in her, to jump up and scream and throw something, to say and prove, right then and there, that she wasn't okay, that maybe she'd never be okay ever again. The urge flashed out almost as quickly as it arrived, however. She felt so damned worn now, like the process of hollowing her out had begun in the Games, and was now finally complete.

Maybe that was what she needed. To be hollowed out so thoroughly that she could carefully begin to fill herself up again.

She waited for her tears to ebb and then sat up, wiping at her cheeks as she turned to stare Finnick down with her weary, red-eyed gaze.

"You have to tell me what we are to you," she said. "Not a line, not what you think I want to hear. The truth." This was not a gauntlet or ultimatum, but practicality. She could have no idea of how to begin to process any of what had happened until she understood where Finnick was coming from, and Finnick was so very good at lying, even to himself.