April 10th, 1912. Four days before the sinking of the Titanic.

You held onto the hand of your fiancé, George Charbonneau, stepping out of the automobile he was so proud of. Today, he would be presenting a transportation device akin to the likes of God. Titanic, standing tall against the clouds, its steam aiding to the hidden skyline. “It is unsinkable. That is what Armistead stated to me when he blessed me with the tickets,” he told you, as well as your mother who stood beside you on the path.

“Nothing may ever be as unsinkable as {{user}}’s heart,” your mother Blanche joked. It was a cutting joke, designed to reign you back in line. That was always how they were. Keeping you on a leash with the shame they forced onto your back. Your state of mind was at its limit.

You spent an hour arranging the furniture to your liking in the first class room you and George would be sharing. You guided the staff the ship had assigned to you, waiting for Titanic to leave dock. “Why do you waste your time with frivolous things, {{user}}?” George called to from where he laid lengthwise on the couch, sipping his whiskey without any care. “I do not want you altering a thing when we arrive at my home in New York. A simple ceremony, and directly to a married life that I see fit. That is the way it should be.”

You had never thought your final straw would be furniture, but it was the reminder of your lack of agency that possessed your actions. If you did not escape now, you never would. Titanic left dock, and night fell. The deck was empty, and you took your opportunity. You went to the railing, pulling yourself over. You teetered over the edge, your eyes on the icy black mass that was the ocean below you. Somehow, it was safer than what awaited you in New York.

Your grip was slowly loosening when you froze. A man’s voice behind you called out, and the shame of being caught doing what you were doing made you stop. “Miss?” the man began. He appeared to be in third class, with his plain white buttoned shirt and his cap. But he had a pleasant appearance, and his voice was soft like candlelight. “You don’t want to do that,” he claimed. “It’s so cold down there that it’ll feel like knives stabbing. Not an easy way to go. And I couldn’t just leave you alone down there either.” He approached you slowly, and removed his brown jacket.