Two years previously
Jack Dawson sits un a rooftop. He is in Italy, though he is not sure where in. He is warming in the sunshine as he draws Rose from afar. He really doesn't know her last name... but he often refers to her as Rose Dawson, just because he loves her. He stalks her too, but that is only because he can't bring himself to speak to her. He is not shy, not really, but he knows that if he were to speak to her, she would look at him as though he was something sticky on the bottom of one of her fancy shoes.
He finishes his drawing of her and changes the page on his sketchbook. Instead of drawing the beautiful landscape he can see from his vantage point, he begins to write, a scribbly under-developed chicken scratch. He begins to write a letter to Rose "Dawson".
My Dearest Rose;
You do not know who I am but I know who you are. I love you Rose because you are very very pretty and I think you are nice because I've seen you giving breadcrumbs to pijuns even though most people just say "shoo"!
I want to talk to you and you should talk to me because I love you and I really really hope you will talk to me
Sinseerly Jack Dawson
He thought this looked really (really really) good. Especially considering he was a thirteen-year-old who had not been to school in a good four years or more. He was proud he had figured out how to spell 'pidgeon' and 'sincerely'. He really thought they were spelled correctly.
He re-read his letter several times and sighed. She would never speak to him, she would never love him. Not if she read this letter anyway! He was going to write such a good letter that she would have to love him.
He pulled a lighter from his pocket and burned the letter. The ashes blew away on the wind, much like a dragon's tears would. Jack Dawson's tears did not blow away on the wind. They rolled silently down his cheeks and onto his sketchbook, leaving two little wrinkly dots to remind him how much he wished he was good enough for Rose.
He found a way off the roof, the same way he had come, though he wasn't entirely sure what that had been. He walked along the street until he heard a man speaking english.
"I need your help sir!" he said to the black haired, mustached man in front of him. "It's about a girl," he added quickly when the man looked concerned.
"Shouldn't-a you ask-a you father for the help?"
"Can't. Dead."
"Ahh... well, let-a me see what I can-a do, okay?"
"Yes. I need you to help me write a love letter to a girl, but she's very rich and will only accept a very, very fancy letter. And I can't be very fancy." The Italian man smiled at Jack.
"She must-a be very special, this one, no?"
Jack smiled back. "I'm going to marry her someday! But first I have to talk to her." He frowned slightly, looking extremely cute.
The Italian man chuckled. "My name is Luigi, little boy, and I will-a be very happy to-a help."
"OK, Luigi! My name is Jack Dawson."
A while later, as the sun began to set, they had their finished product. Jack thanked Luigi and gave him a drawing of spaghetti that he had worked on while they discussed the details of the letter.
In a small corner of the village, Jack sat on a stone bench near a rose bush and looked at the letter. It was written in large, loopy letters. Very fancy.
My Dearest Rose;
You are the sun, the moon, the stars, the rose that blooms in spring. You are all the beauty in this world and more, you are all the beauty of the next twelve worlds, and more even than that.
I love you Rose, and it pains me to see that we cannot be together, at any time, ever. I wish to speak with you, my Rose. Please contact me at any time, just call my name and I will be there in an instant. I am always close by and
Jack stopped. Rose would not like this either. He got out his faithful lighter and set the page ablaze.
The ashes flittered away on the breeze, much like a phoenix's tears would. Jack Dawson's tears did not flitter away on the breeze. They landed on the red petal of a rose, like two droplets of dew, a reminder of how much he wished Rose would love him back.