Written by Big Hair and Converses
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.

My eyes felt like slabs of rock as I wriggled down into the still-warm covers of my duvet. I could still feel tears lurking behind my eyelids; I made a further decision to push the sound of Rose’s shrill cries of "Jack! Jack!" to the back of my mind to avoid yet another fit of sobbing. I really shouldn’t take movies to the point where sobs are racking through my body and my head hurts a little. I don’t think that I’ve ever successfully watched a Leonardo DiCaprio film without breaking down. Was that a good thing? I was embedding my head into the pillow, absentmindedly molding the fabric of the covers around my body as my mind wandered through the flooded, dimly lit corridors of the briskly sinking Titanic. I exhaled loudly, relaxing my tensed muscles and relieving my heavy eyes from the irritating, stinging pain that came with the vast amount of tears that had fallen, all in remembrance of Jack Dawson. And that, I suppose, is why I had the dream.

His face. His eyes. Everything about him was just utterly and completely captivating. It was as if all gravity had disappeared and I was being pulled and urged towards him. A golden glow seemed to radiate from his perfectly tanned skin and his eyes bored into mine like he was searching my soul for a sign, a signal. He glanced briefly down at my trembling, clasped hands before reaching out one of his own hands, unwrapping mine from their grip and holding onto them tightly. I peeled my eyes away from our entwined hands to look into his gleaming face. He was staring at me in awe, as if I was some incredible creature of immaculate beauty when I knew I was anything but. Slowly but confidently, he pulled me closer towards himself. I could feel his warm breath mixing with mine now; my pulse was soaring and then hammering in my chest alertly. My hands were clammy and sweaty. At this, I felt my face burn crimson, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or mind. I knew his name. I knew it well. I felt as if I had spoken it many times before. I felt as if I knew this man well, too, like I’d spent day after day with him just sitting there.

"Jack," I said softly, the word sweet on my lips. He craned his neck downwards now, and I knew exactly what was coming. I began to panic, but stopped as soon as he wrapped his hands around my shoulders. I could feel our collaborated breath against my skin now. I had the feeling that if a knife were to dive into my shoe, taking off all of my toes, I would sense nothing. All that mattered was his face close to mine, his breath on my neck, his arms on my back, his eyes piercing into mine, his hair suspended just above his eyebrows, his mouth slightly open. His face was hovering ever-closer to mine now, closer and closer and closer--

I woke with a start, my back drenched with sweat and my breathing quick and heavy. Cursing under my breath, I tried to regain the comfortable position I had previously possessed and desperately attempted to delve into the blissful land that is that of dreamers.

He was sitting on a wall this time. Still Jack, wearing the same brown suspenders over a beige shirt that hung nonchalantly out of his trousers. He was grinning down at me, stroking my hair with his slender fingers with one hand and holding my hand with the other. Casually, he kicked his legs back and forth, swaying with the warm breeze that nudged his hair and sent it into disarray. Several of my friends passed me. I was observant enough to notice that, but the rest of the world seemed a worthless blur compared to his glowing eyes. His eyes, his eyes, his eyes, I always seemed to focus on his eyes. What about his hands? His hands that had worked so hard and had gained scars and bruises to prove it? They were sculpted to beautiful imperfection, his rough hands and long thin fingers. The fingers that had braved the roaring, ice cold sea after the destruction of the Titanic. Or had they been through the Titanic? Maybe Jack had never encountered or even heard of such a boat. What about Rose? Was she alone? Had she hung from the back of the ship with no one to never let go? Was I stopping their relationship in all its beauty?

Did I really care?

No. No would be the honest answer. I did not care one bit about it. Because I had Jack Dawson staring lovingly into my eyes and stroking my hair. It was not an appropriate moment to be concerned for spoiled rich girls. Whom I fully respect. But are fictional.

"I love you." It was three words, but they held a massive amount of significance.

It was the first time I had heard him speak in this state. His voice chimed and rang with its American twang in my head. I love you. My heart leapt and danced in my chest and my breathing grew heavy.

"I…I love you, too," I replied anxiously, though I had no need for my anxieties.

He paused, thinking about a superior statement to make.

"I love you so much that I would eat your hair."

Logically and normally, I would react sanely to this by saying something like "Um…what? Why? Please don’t eat my hair. I actually rather like it." But no. Apparently, this was quite an honor. Something to get rather excited about. Which I did. So he jumped off the wall and landed steadily on the ground. Still holding my hand and soothingly rubbing my palm, he gently plucked a hair from my head. I, still excited, was beaming proudly at the evidently expressive ritual; I observed as he placed the strand of my hair into his mouth and quickly swallowed. He ate one of my hairs. To prove his love to me. One of my hairs. Love. Jack Dawson. Hair. One of them. Eat. Prove love.

The dream world began to spin as I landed safely back into reality. I woke for the second time, eyes wide and breath fast. But still every hair intact.

The End.

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