I saw Titanic today in theatres to commemorate the sinking. My friend's great-grandmother was actually on the ship, which I thought was pretty amazing. Anyways, long author's note short, this is in honor of all those who perished a hundred years ago. We will never forget.

Cold—it seemed to seep into my bones and settle there, multiplying and spreading like some foreign disease.

It made me want to stop and give up, lose everything but gain everything all at once, defy Jack but become happy again all in one simple instant.

The sky was black—black as coal and mourning cloth and Caledon Hockley's heart—set with the diamonds that were the twinkling stars. I saw them and didn't at the same time, my tired eyes just fixating on the coal black, cloth black, heart black night above.

Then the wisps of a song; a simple ditty sung by two drunken lovers whose lives seemed to stretch like taffy along with their champagne grins. It was our song, the star song, the flying song. Jack had called it "Come Josephine in My Flying Machine," and the lyrics made no sense at all. They still don't, but I don't care anymore. I don't try to puzzle them out, try to find the appeal that Jack so clearly felt. But it's our song, and forever will be.

Almost instinctively, but not quite, because this bone-numbing cold seemed to trap you in your own body and made everything a chore, my frozen lips formed the words, butchering the rhythm and making the ditty seem fit for a funeral rather than a pub.

"Come Josephine, in my flying machine."

I used to always wonder what that flying machine could have implied: some sort of mechanical bird? A flying automobile like that love-lorn Renault? But then the wonder had ceased when the first airplane took flight, and the mystery of Jack's tune seemed void. Everything seemed void, for the next nine decades of my life, whether I wanted it to be or not. I never had a sweet dream again, of dresses or love or silly girlish thoughts. I was seventeen and already thinking like a grizzled war veteran from some years-past battle.

"And it's up she goes…up she goes…"

The stars seemed brighter that night, maybe because they were the only source of light. Titanic had long since succumbed to the water's grasp, plummeting beneath with most of its unlucky living cargo still aboard and shrieking, lungs filling with air then water then nothing at all.

I heard sounds in the distance, but never connected them with anything. Their echoing quality made them sound more like some banshee's death howl than actual humans, fighting through the horror to rescue others.

I flickered my gaze to the horizon, and I remember seeing movement, a ghost of white floating beyond the sea of gore and death and tragedy, of lives cut short and still hanging by a thread. Of Jack, and of me.

"Can anybody hear me? Is there anyone alive out there?"

I turned to see Jack, my Jack, and I peeled my blue hand away from the thin headboard. We had been in the water for only a few hours but it felt like I had grown up there, rocked to something close to sleep but more sinister by the maternal edge of the waters. I fought it, that fatal fatigue, but I couldn't fight it for long if we had to make it through another hour.

"Jack," I urged, gently nudging his hand with my own, reveling at how I could feel nothing, every sensation was gone."Jack, there's a boat."

His eyes were closed, he wasn't gazing upon the stars like we had done the night of the dinner. He looked every bit the angel he was, innocent and sleeping. "Jack," I said again, "There's a boat, Jack." I loved the sound of his name on my tongue. Short, sweet, terse. A single heavy syllable weighted with everything—every one of my hopes, my dreams, my loves, my words, my determinations, all pinned on one name—Jack.

The broken chain of his handcuffs rattled as I shook him. "Jack." He was tired, too tired to move. He wasn't taking me seriously. Why wasn't he taking me seriously?

"Is there anybody alive out there?" The voice was clearer, sharper. Closer. And soon it would be gone.

"Jack! Jack, there's a boat, Jack!" He didn't move, didn't twitch, didn't groan or grunt or hum or hiss or cry or moan or any other sound.

Frosted eyebrows. Stiff hair. Deathgrip blue cheeks, indigo lips. Long fair lashes frosted over and drooping, and frozen tear tracks on those cheeks.

It was all wrong.

"Jack."

"Jack, please."

"There's a boat—"

I broke into silent sobs. Frozen saltine tears clatter to the black sea, coal black, cloth black, heart black.

"Jack."

I closed my eyes, laying my head on top of our joined hands. If he was dead then there was no hope for me. I couldn't go on without him. So why try?

Promise me, Rose.

It was so cold.

Never let go.

Bone-numbing, seeping into every crevice.

Honor me in this way.

If I just closed my eyes…

Never let go.

I could let go. Freeze. Leave, like he did.

Promise me.

It was really so cold.

Rose.

So easy…

Honor me.

So heavy…

Don't say your good-byes.

He's gone. I should be too.

Rose.

Just let go, just do it.

Promise me.

Do it.

Honor me.

Let go.

No goodbyes.

Die.

You're gonna grow old and get married and have lots of babies.

No. Give up.

You're gonna die an old lady in your bed.

Freeze.

Not tonight.

I can't.

Promise me.

The lifeboat was leaving—my eyes snapped open.

I-I promise.

I pressed my lips to Jack's cold hands, rough and tapered, like I'm sure Monet's were.

Don't say your goodbyes.

More frozen tears tracked down my frosty cheeks.

Promise me, Rose.

"I'll never let go."

And then Jack slips, away, away from me. Into the ocean.

Coal black.

Cloth black.

Heart black.

Please tell me what you think!