At a first glance, she looks motionless ; eyes focusing decidedly into the middle-distance, jaw set stone-tight, the rise and fall of her chest shallow and slow. A tiny island in among the hall full of citizens and refugees, Katniss paints an image of utter, silent solitude. She could almost look calm.
A little deeper behind that concentrated gaze, however —— there’s a growing frustration, and almost-mania to her focus. Her hand is clenched in a fist about her fork, and though she’s making no sudden movements, the meat of her stew has been shredded and diced into messy chunks.
A close enough glance, and it isn’t hard to tell that she’s restless, agitated ; something’s burning beneath the nearly-marble demeanor.
It wasn’t hard to tell the signs of one who has been broken— one who has come so close to giving up. One who refuses to try anymore— but one who knows they still have to. At the edge of their own worlds, they are ready to jump off— but unable to take that first step. He knew the feeling and he knew it quite well.
So out of everyone in this place— Finnick knew. He knew the struggle, what and what not to do next. From the supper line, he could see her inner fight— for he fought the same way every day since she was taken. What to do now? Leave her to her sanity— or join her in insanity.
Legs walk and he is seated opposite her, fingers fiddling with utensils, not sure whether to eat or care first.
