Written on September 8th, 2013
Edited July 1st, 2014

Maybe it was because her birthday passed, but Rose saw him for the first time after what happened one month later.

Rose fell asleep in her bed at about 10 PM on the night of May 25th, 1912. It had been one month since the ship of dreams sunk, killing all of Rose's dreams along with it. With no money in her pocket, she somehow made a living and found a steady home. No one knew she was previously Rose DeWitt Bukater, the 17-year-old woman who survived the sinking of the RMS Titanic. They knew her as Rose Dawson, the 18-year-old woman who had only slept under a bridge once in her life. Rose had never once fallen asleep since the sinking without thinking of what she went through, but on this specific night, she fell asleep peacefully.

She found herself in a familiar place after that: at the edge of the Carpathia, staring up at the Statue of Liberty, just like she did on April 18th of the same year.

A sense of serenity surrounded her; there was no panic over whether or not she'd have enough money to feed herself, or not knowing what to do or where to go, like she'd been worried about since she stepped off the boat and into New York. Instead, she was surrounded by people who had undergone the same thing she went through, experienced the same frigid, freezing waters, seen the same sights she had. These people understood.

"Can I take your name, please, love?" A man asked, after he had walked up to her.

Rose tore her gaze away from the Statue of Liberty to face the man with a clipboard in his hands. She opened her mouth, about say "DeWitt Bukater" but then she remembered...

She was free. She was separated from her family. She didn't have to ever see them again if she didn't want to; and she certainly did not want to. So Rose spoke the only name on her mind, the name that had echoed through her head for the last three days: "Dawson," she told the man, turning her gaze back to the Statue of Liberty, welcoming her back into America, a place where she could find a new beginning. "Rose Dawson."

"Thank you." The man walked away, leaving Rose to stare up at the stars again, so vast and endless; it was when she was thinking of how she would handler her new life in New York when someone tapped her shoulder.

She didn't know how, but she knew, she just knew—

The first thing she saw was that familiar, warm, kind, and welcoming smile beamed at her, defying all odds, but Rose didn't care. Her emotions were running wild, sprinting across her face so fast that even she couldn't keep up.

She couldn't say anything. She inhaled and exhaled as a weak smile crossed her face as she slowly threw her arms around his neck and softly pressed her lips on his. It felt familiar, like she had been kissing these lips for the past three days, like they were still on the bow of the ship and Rose was flying, or that they were back on the deck and she told him she was going to get off with him. Maybe now, they could finally get off together.

They pulled away after moments together, and Rose finally saw his face; that beautiful face that made her feel all warm and happy inside whenever she saw it. She'd been deprived of that wonderful feeling for the past 72 hours, replaced with guilt and a feeling of heavy, thinking "This is all my fault, if I had just realized what was happening he might not have—

"I—I don't understand," was the first thing either of them had said since they saw each other. "I—I don't — you're — you're—"

"Dead," he confirmed, a smile on his face, and all the hope had once again been drained from her. Rose knew it in her soul that this wasn't real, but in the brief moment of happiness, she hoped that he could have been alive — that she had been mistaken when he hadn't responded to his name, the millions of times that she said it — that he was alive, he was breathing, he was real and he was with her, and they were together and Rose wouldn't have to be alone.

"But—" she stuttered, scanning his face once again, unable to tear her eyes from his face. "But, if you're dead, I don't—"

"I'm just a figment of your imagination, my love," he grinned, as if being dead was the best thing in the world. "I'm not actually here. You just think I am."

And then she wanted to cry, wanted to curl up in a ball with that green blanket wrapped around her again, and forget the world and everyone in it. He was right. He was dead. He was never coming back. Their romance was over, the ship was on the ocean floor and all of Rose's happiness was gone with him and the other 1,500 victims.

"Why are you here?" She questioned, letting the tears fall onto her cheeks while at the same time letting him wipe them away. "I — I don't — it just makes it harder—"

"I didn't die for nothing, did I?" He asked, and Rose shook her head feverishly.

"No!" She exclaimed, her arms still around his neck, his blue eyes staring into a pair of the same color. She could still remember when she was lying on the couch, and she saw his eyes peeking out from above his sketchbook, and Rose couldn't help but grin at the blush he was giving off—

"Don't let me down," he continued, moving her hand from his neck into his, caressing it. "I made you promise that you'd never let go. When I met you, you were thinking about taking your life. If I hadn't been there, who knows what you would have done? But by the time I was dying in that water, I used my last dying breath and my last dying wish that you would live, my love. You promised that you'd never give up. I know life is hard and money is hard to come by, and I'm living proof of that."

He gestured to his clothes, the same white shirt and brown pants and suspenders he had lived the last day of his life in, and Rose guffawed. "My love, I'm not alive, but you are. It's May now, the Titanic has been gone for a month, and so have I. Life is hard, but remember what I taught you in those three days we had together."

She was silent for a moment, and so was he; but she was reluctant to let go of his hand, afraid that he might slip away and she'd never get to see him again. For the past month, Rose could only see him in her mind, and the mental picture she had of him was fading quickly. She could barely remember what he wore when they went to the party in third class when she thought of it. If she let go now, she might never see him again, even when she was sleeping.

"I — I love you," she told him, tears steadily falling from her eyes, and he smiled along with her sadly.

"I love you too," he told her, and Rose grinned again. He hadn't told her that before. "Like I said, life is hard. But I survived it, and so have you. All I'm asking is that you never let go. Remember what happened. Think about it."

As he faded away, so did Rose's happiness and hope. She screamed, called out to him, yelled his name, but he couldn't hear. He was dead. And before Rose could cry anymore, could lie down on the deck and start weeping over the loss of a loved one, she woke up.

She was in her bed in New York, alone. Without her love. Without Jack Dawson.