The Titanic felt alive beneath my feet, humming with possibility. We’d been aboard less than a day, and already Tommy, Fabrizio, and I had made it our playground. Third-class or not, there was energy everywhere—people talking in ten different tongues, music echoing down steel corridors, the smell of salt and coal in the air.

“Look at this beauty!” Fabrizio shouted as he spread his arms on the deck, spinning in circles until he nearly toppled. “Bigger than Naples, I swear to God.”

Tommy laughed so hard he nearly choked. “Aye, and ye look like a right fool dancing on her deck!”

I leaned against the railing, sketchbook under my arm, grinning at their antics. Truth was, I was just as awestruck. The sea stretched out infinite and green, sky just as wide. For the first time in a long while, I felt like anything was possible.

We ate dinner in the third-class dining room that night—long tables, fiddle music, laughter bouncing off the walls. Fabrizio managed to charm a girl into dancing with him, while Tommy shouted along with the songs, red-faced and grinning. I drew quick sketches on napkins: a violinist with a crooked nose, a child asleep in her mother’s lap, Fabrizio’s wild expression mid-step.

When the meal was done and the crowd started to thin, I slipped away. My friends were still caught up in the noise and the beer, but I needed air.

The upper deck was quiet. Too quiet compared to the chaos below. The wind was cool against my face as I walked, hands shoved deep in my pockets, boots scuffing softly against the planks. The stars were so clear out here they looked close enough to touch, and the ocean mirrored every one.

I drifted toward the stern, following the hum of the engines. That’s when I saw her.

A figure in pale silk, standing on the other side of the railing, facing the dark waves below. Her hair gleamed like copper in the moonlight. She leaned forward just enough that my chest tightened.

My laughter from earlier vanished.

She’s gonna jump.

My legs moved before my mind caught up.

“Don’t do it,” I said, voice cutting through the night.

She twisted around fast, eyes wide. Her face—beautiful, strong, but breaking apart in places—hit me like a punch.

“Stay back!” she snapped, hands gripping the iron rail. “Don’t come any closer.”

I held up both hands. “Alright. I’m not moving.” I stayed a few steps away, my heart racing. “Just take it easy, okay?”

Her eyes burned, though I couldn’t tell if it was anger or tears. “You don’t understand,” she said sharply.

I took a slow breath. No, I don’t. But I don’t need to, either. “You’re right,” I said gently. “I don’t. But if you step off that rail, I’ll never get the chance to.”

The wind whipped between us. She flinched, clutching tighter.

I searched for words, for anything that might keep her looking at me instead of the black water. “Look… I’ve been in cold water before. Fell through the ice fishing on Lake Wissota when I was a kid.” My voice quickened, desperate to fill the silence. “It hits you like a thousand knives, all at once. You can’t breathe, can’t think, you just… want out. That’s not the way to go.”

She blinked, startled by the detail.

I softened my tone, leaning slightly forward though careful not to startle her. “You don’t want that. Not really. Whatever it is, it’s not worth that.”

Her lip trembled, and for a moment she looked so young, so fragile.

“You’re crazy,” she whispered.

I smiled faintly, though my chest was tight. “Maybe. But at least I’m alive. And I’d kinda like you to be, too.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the churn of the propellers. Her grip faltered, and slowly—like she was testing the weight of her own decision—she swung one leg back over the rail. My pulse thundered in my ears as she brought the other over, her slipper slipping slightly on the steel. I stepped forward instinctively, arms half raised.

Then she was on the deck again, shaking, her hands clutched to her chest.

“There you go,” I said quietly, relief flooding through me. “Safe and sound.”