A/N: Well hello there! :) Yes, I am FINALLY publishing something on FanFiction again. I'm terribly sorry that I have not posted ANYTHING since July. My life has become rather hectic, to put it mildly. I shall give you a somewhat-brief summary: In late July, I decided to write as much as I could for the rest of the summer, for I knew that the start of school would signify the end of my free time. However, I got the absolute worst case of Writer's Block I'd ever had in my entire life (this is not an exaggeration), and it lasted for the rest of the summer. I had to stop writing fanfiction altogether in early September because by then school had started and I was up until midnight doing homework EVERY SINGLE NIGHT (this is also not an exaggeration). In addition, my beloved Bombay cat died of cancer in mid-September, so I really wasn't in the mood to write fanfiction about a movie in which 1,500 people die. After working my butt off for over two months, Thanksgiving break came. Suddenly, I had free time again! I began to write fanfiction again. I got to watch Titanic for the first time since late July! I decided that I really wanted to publish something on FanFiction before my break ended. Here's the thing: I don't like to publish anything that isn't finished (that is why I have published only one-shots so far, by the way). So, I decided to look through my files and see if I could find anything decent enough to publish online. Sure enough, I found this one-shot. It was incomplete at the time, so I finished it (yay for me finishing a fanfiction for once!). After writing "The End", I proceeded to edit it. Finally, I was ready to publish it. :) Thus, here I am, writing an A/N that is way too long.

Now that I have most likely bored you with that summary, I shall actually tell you a few things about this story. 95% of this fanfic was written about a year ago, so please keep that in mind when you read it. :) It takes place in present day. It is written in 2nd person P.O.V., so the words "you" and "your" show up a lot. Finally, it is written in present tense. (I tried really hard to make sure that each and every verb in this fic was written in the correct tense, but if you should find a verb that is written in the wrong tense, feel free to let me know via PM... I would really appreciate it.)

Alright, I'll shut up now. (About time, right?)

Much love,

Rose :)

Oh, wait, I almost forgot to put a disclaimer! (Silly me.)

Disclaimer: I do not own Titanic.

(Rose's P.O.V.)

Your sobs, uneven and high-pitched, seem to stand out in this warm spring night.

Between your irregular spurts, you can hear the sound of happy chatter coming from the backyard. You're sitting on the porch steps, looking out on the front lawn, and yet the backyard seems like a world away. You know it's rude, but you wish that the mindless chatter and the clink of wine glasses would just go away; you'd rather hear the crickets in the grass play their lovely music, music that is much better than the rushed melodies being played by the orchestra out back. But you can't just stop the orchestra from playing their songs. You have to sit back and let it happen, no matter how hard you wish you could just go up and yank a violin out of a player's grip.

It's just like earlier today, in the church- you couldn't stop what was happening, you had to stay in your pew and watch the scene unfold, grinning and bearing it the whole time. You couldn't just stand up when the preacher said, "Speak now or forever hold your peace." Yes, your heart told you to stand, but your mind told you to stay seated. And of course you followed your mind; it was the source of wisdom, after all. Hearts were cruel things that wanted to make you see the world upside-down and twisted. The mind, on the other hand, had reason, logic, and it had always been right; this time was no different. Your mind knew fully well that you couldn't just ruin his day like that. Who would do something like that to their best friend? No true best friend would, and your mind knew it. Surely, being his best friend was all you were ever going to get from him, and during the wedding, there was no way you were going to just put that in jeopardy.

You can be happy with being his best friend, can't you? You've always held that position, and there's no denying that you've always liked it. So why does it suddenly seem like a death sentence? Why don't you want to be his best friend anymore? You know the answer to that; you don't want to be his best friend anymore because you want to be something more.

But that is just plain selfish. You already have his friendship, so why should you be craving something more than that? Why can't you just be happy with what you have? As the tears slide down your face, self-hatred trickles through your bloodstream.

Why are you being so selfish, Rose? Why? Why can't you just be happy for him?

You can't find an answer to any of those questions, and you lower your head in shame.

Another sob comes out, and your vision is so blurred by your tears that you can't even distinguish the ground from the night sky. Then again, why does that matter? You don't want to see anything, you don't want to hear anything, and you especially don't want to feel anything. Feelings only make life complicated; emotions are a waste of your time, especially love. If only you'd realized that sooner, before you ended up sitting here, crushed, crying into the dark night. Why couldn't you have just figured this out before things got out of hand?

I'm such an idiotic fool, you think to yourself as you wipe the newest tears away with your hand. It doesn't matter though, because more tears come out and you know that there is no way you can wipe every single one away.

All those times you could've just walked away and kept your heart from breaking... why didn't you take advantage of those opportunities? Just more proof of my stupidity, you think. You were capable of walking away and letting it all go, but you didn't. Why didn't you? Why did you choose to stay, making yourself suffer later?

You're so stupid, Rose! Why'd you do that, huh? Why?

You bite your lip and bury your head in your knees, wishing that you knew.

"Rose?"

You lift your head up to see, of all people, him. The man you've been crying about all night, Jack Dawson, is right here, in the flesh.

He looks so beautiful in his tuxedo that you want to blubber even harder, but you stop yourself from doing so. It's bad enough that he sees you like this- eyes red and puffy, hunched over on the porch steps, looking like a mess, your crazy red curls tangled and limp. He shouldn't have to see you upset- this is his special night, and the last thing you would ever want to do is ruin it for him.

He stays standing a few feet away from you in front of a flower bush, his arms crossed. You see his eyes go from sparkling in that beautiful way that only they can do to looking hard at you. They are now filled with confusion and sympathy.

"Rose?" He asks again. "Rose, are you alright?"

Of course you're not, but you reply in a shaky voice, "I'm fine, Jack."

He takes a few steps forward. "You don't look so well."

"I- I am fine," you insist again. You wish that he could just believe you and walk away, but you know him better than that. He isn't fooled a bit.

"Wanna scoot over there?" He asks quietly, referring to the porch steps.

You nod, sliding over a bit to make room for him. He sits down, not saying anything for a moment.

He then turns to you, a concerned look in his gorgeous blue eyes.

"Rose... if you don't tell me what's wrong, I'm gonna hafta call the authorities and have them interrogate you," he jokes. You bite your lip again; he sees this and his smile fades away, knowing that this isn't the time to joke around.

"I said there was nothing wrong." You wince as your mind snaps insults at you, telling you that now he knows there's something wrong with you and that you've officially ruined his evening.

"Rose..." He pauses. "That's horseshit. I know you better than that- hell, I've known you practically all my life. And I know when you're not telling me something. So what's going on?"

"Nothing Jack. Why can't you just believe me?"

"Because you suck at lying." There's a silence in the air after those words come out. "Ah, no offense," he adds afterwards.

"Jack, you have to go back to the reception," you say, trying to change the subject. "I think people are going to notice that the groom's missing."

"And I noticed that you were missing." It's the perfect comeback to your pitiful words, and you know it. "So I came to find you, and here I am, and here you are, and I'm not going back until you can give me an answer, Rose, because I know that there's an answer. I don't know why you aren't saying it, but listen, Rose, you can tell me anything. You know that." His voice gets softer then. "Why don't you tell your best friend Jack about what's going on inside that crazy head of yours?"

You want to tell him; you want to burst into tears and lay your head on his lap and tell him everything.

But if you do that, he'll just have a whole bunch of shit to go through. And who gives their best friend a load of shit as a wedding present?

He waits for your answer. What are you supposed to say to him? Should you just lie and hope that for once, it sounds convincing?

Sure enough, that's exactly what you do. "I'm tired."

He snorts quietly. It's a stupid lie, and you both know it.

"Tired? You haven't even danced yet," he responds, laughing a little at your absurd words.

Dancing- the perfect distractor! "Shouldn't you be dancing with your new wife?" You ask. "It's tradition, you know."

"Nah, she went to the bathroom." He grins. "And besides, we already had the first dance."

The first dance... suddenly, your mind is spinning with visions of Jack twirling around with his new wife, his arms around her waist, whispering in her ear how beautiful she looks and how he loves her more than words can say. Your heart seems to shatter into a million tiny pieces, which surprises you, for you thought that your heart had already cracked and been destroyed.

Apparently not so. It's not until now that you realize just how deep the hurt runs in you. You instantly want back the way you felt before, a few seconds ago; that was nothing compared to this. Nothing at all. Now, trying to push away the urge to cry is a not just a fight but a battle, and you're deathly afraid that it's a battle you're going to lose.

You manage to say, "She'll come back; it only takes a minute or two to urinate. And then she'll wonder where you are."

"I'm sure she'll be alright with me being gone for a few minutes. Besides, she's gonna have to deal with me for the rest of her life- she'll have to adjust to me disappearing and reappearing," he chuckles. "Now," he says, his light-hearted manner quickly melting away, "are you gonna tell me why you're sad?"

Sad, ha. "Sad" doesn't even cover it. More like "heartbroken." But you know that he's just trying to be nice to you. For Pete's sake, he's comforting you on his own wedding night, a night that he should be spending with all of the people in the backyard who want to congratulate him, not with you, all tear-stained and pathetic, sitting out on the porch steps! The least you can do is give answering him another go- even if you have to answer him with another lie.

"I just- hormones. Crazy things, you know," you say, hoping that you can still use hormones as an excuse for whenever you're feeling crappy, even though you're no longer a teenager but a young woman in her twenties.

"Hormones, Rose?" He replies, chuckling once again. "C'mon, I know you can do better than that." He laughs again, then quiets down. "Rose, what's wrong?" He pauses for a brief second. "You can always tell me, you know."

And for a moment, you find yourself believing him. After all, your whole life, whenever you had a problem or an issue or was just plain upset, he was the one that listened to you, gave you his shoulder to cry on, and made you feel better. When you were thirteen and your first period caught you by surprise, wasn't he the first person that you told about it, rather than your own mother, because he was the only one who you trusted enough to tell? Hadn't you told him right away, because you knew from the moment you first saw the blood that you needed him, not your mother or your father or anyone else, but him? And wasn't he the one who told you it was okay, hugged you, and then gave you his jacket to wear around your waist so that your mother wouldn't see the large red bloodstain?

And then, reality comes rushing in, and your mind, with its logic, informs you that this, the fact that you're in love with him, is something that you just can't tell him. It's not as if you're a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl anymore, and your biggest problem is that your dress has a very noticeable red stain in the area between your legs. This time, the problem is just... different. Telling him isn't going to make either of you feel better. In fact, if you tell him, you'll only end up hurting him. And you can't hurt him, you can't let him deal with this shit too. You just can't. You love him. Even though he doesn't return your feelings, you love him just the same, and the last thing you would ever want to do is to cause him pain.

Since neither of you are talking now, the only sound you can hear is the orchestra's music in the backyard. It's still rushed, and you can't help but think that he deserves to hear something better than that on his wedding night. It isn't fair; in fact, none of this is fair. It isn't fair that the orchestra is bad, and that he's wasting his time trying to help you when you know that you can't even give him an answer to his question, and that you're in love with him. It's all one big mess, and you can't hold it in any longer. Before you know it, you've lost the battle; a tear falls, then another, and then they're running down your face, like snow in an avalanche.

But, unlike an avalanche, the tears are silent. So it isn't until he turns to you, wondering why you haven't responded yet, and sees the flood running down your face that he realizes you're crying.

"Rose!" He whispers in alarm. "Rose? Rose! Rose, what's going on?"

You want to tell him so badly, but you keep your mouth shut. If he finds out the reason why you're upset, the reason why you're crying right now, the reason why you've been sitting here ever since the reception started, he'll have to deal with it all too. You refuse to let that happen, and in the back of your mind you vow that you are not going to make him deal with all of this. This is for you to deal with, and you only. So what if you have to keep it bottled up inside, with no one to talk to, no one to reach out to? As long as he doesn't get hurt as well, you'll gladly deal with every tear, every thought, and every crevice in your heart.

In an instant, he extends his arms out and you find yourself being pulled into a hug, as if it were old times, and you end up soaking a good portion of his tuxedo with your tears.

He knows from experience that words won't do any good when you're like this, so he strokes your hair instead while your tears run like a river. As he holds you there, you can't help but think that he's spending his wedding night with you instead of his bride, and you don't know whether that makes you want to fill up with happiness or guilt.

After what seems like a few years, he wipes a tear from your cheek. The gesture, so simple, seems to be like a sign to you, a sign that you should stop and look at him. And that's exactly what you do- you take control of your tears and make them stop, and then you look up at his face.

It takes all of your self-control to stop yourself from getting lost in his eyes. You take a deep breath, and you say the first thing that comes to you. "I really hope that your tuxedo dries quickly."

He laughs, caught off-guard by your words. "Well, I'm sure it will. It's just a tuxedo, Rose. Besides, this is probably the only time I'll ever even wear it."

You manage to smile.

"Now," he says, pulling away and looking at you, "it's a good thing it was my tuxedo you soaked, not your dress. It would have been a shame to ruin that- you look nice."

You look nice. Only three little words, but they're enough to make you fill up with a lighter, happier feeling. If only you knew what that feeling was- you can't seem to put your finger on it.

"Rose... I believe you are blushing," he says, smiling.

For a moment, it's as if the storm has gone by, and everything might be fine. Maybe you will be able to deal with a broken heart. At the moment, anything seems possible. But by the next second, you can't help but think that his sweet smile and cute little compliments are just two of the many things that you love about him. The storm has come back, and it's reminding you that you aren't the one who will get to experience life with him every day for the rest of your life- someone else will get to. His new bride is the one who will get to see his sweet smile and hear his cute little compliments. She is the one that will get to spend the rest of her days with him, have his children someday, and wake up to him every morning in bed, not you.

Not you.

You lower your head and stare down at the ground. A silence settles in the air.

He wants you to tell him something, anything, and you know that, but how are you to talk to him without hurting him?

I won't hurt him. I won't. Absolutely not.

But wouldn't keeping him in the dark also hurt him?

Surely my not saying anything would make him question whether I still consider him my confidant.

What is the right thing to do? You continue to stare down at the ground, as if the answer to that is scrawled in the dirt.

And then, the craziest thing happens. You begin to speak.

"I'm such a fool, Jack."

A second after saying it, you glance up at him to see how he is reacting. He looks confused, but also relieved that you're finally saying something.

"About what?" He asks simply.

You look down again.

"That's the hard part," you say slowly. "I can't exactly tell you."

"Why not?"

"Trust me." A slight breeze comes by and ruffles both your hair and the skirt of your dress. "I just can't."

"Alright." He waits for a second before asking, "Well, what can you tell me?"

You look down at your fingers for a minute, as if they are the most interesting things you have ever seen in your life, and then you start to speak.

"Well… I'm a very selfish woman, Jack."

He raises his eyebrows at you.

"I'm not thankful enough for what I already do have," you continue. "Rather, I'm craving for something more- something that I can't have."

"Why can't you have it?"

"I waited too long," you tell him, trying to be just vague enough so that he doesn't know what exactly you're talking about, but he understands how you feel. After all, you're trying to avoid hurting him. "There was something I wanted very badly, but now it's too late to have it."

"Is there really such a thing as being too late?"

"Yes, there is," you inform him. "It's far, far too late now."

"Well, I'm sorry 'bout that." He's quiet for a moment. "You know what you're not too late for, though?"

You turn to look at him curiously. "No, what?"

"A chance to dance at my wedding reception," he says, and suddenly he's grinning. "Wait right here. I'll be right back."

"Jack-" Before you can finish, he is gone.

He's crazy, you think to yourself. Positively crazy.

Of course, that only adds to his charm, and you know it.

You're busy thinking about all of Jack's insane antics throughout the years when you suddenly hear the first few notes of a familiar song coming from the backyard. You throat goes dry as you realize where exactly you've heard it before.

"Miss Rose DeWitt Bukater?"

You look up to see Jack standing in front of you, extending a hand towards you.

You take his hand and he pulls you up.

"I haven't heard this song in such a long time," you tell him, trying not to think about the tingling sensation you feel in your stomach as he puts his arms around your waist.

"Well, do you still know the words?"

"Of course I do." You give him a small smile. Really, how could you ever forget this song? It is the very song that, over the years, became somewhat of a private joke between the two of you. Back in your childhood days, it was the song that you and he would sing, rather off-key, together at 3AM while camping in Jack's backyard during the summer.

He grins at you in response, and the next thing you know, you're placing your arms around his neck and the two of you are starting to dance.

He leans in and quietly sings in your ear, "Oh! Say! Let us fly, dear. Where, kid? To the sky, dear!" His voice is off-key, as it has always been, and you close your eyes as you continue to listen to it.

Of course, you don't keep them closed for long, for who knows when you'll get the chance to see his face again?

At this thought, you start to wonder if you ever really will see him again. After all, you know that he's wanted to travel the world his whole life. As painful as it is, you can easily envision him leaving town and never coming back.

The more you think about it, the more you are convinced that surely he'll be on his way to a faraway place soon enough. Perhaps he'll go to California, for you know that he has always dreamed of seeing the ocean, or Paris, considering that he's always wanted to see the Mona Lisa in person. In the back of your mind, you can't help but wonder if this dance is his way of telling you good-bye.

If so, it's a rather nice good-bye, you think to yourself. At this point, the two of you are slowly twirling around in a circle, like a figurine in a music box.

"To the sky so high." With those words, the first verse is finished.

When the chorus begins, you sing the words with him. "Come Josephine in my flying machine, going up she goes! Up she goes! Balancing Ba- Something 'bout a bird on a beam!" This was always the part that the two of you would mess up, and you start to laugh.

"In the air she goes!" Jack continues as you stifle your giggles.

"Where? There she goes!" You chime in, singing as theatrically as you can.

"Up! Up! A little bit higher!"

"Oh my! The moon is on fire!"

"Come Josephine in my flying machine…"

"…going up, all on, goodbye!" You sing, finishing the line. At this, you both begin to laugh.

"You know, I think we should start to dance a little faster," he teases.

"Oh, no, Jack. Not when I'm wearing these ridiculous heels," you protest. He just chuckles and pulls away.

"No, Jack! Really, don't do this."

"C'mon," he laughs, taking your hands in his. "It'll be fun."

"Jack, no!"

Jack just gives you a goofy grin.

"Jack! Really! I-" Suddenly, the two of you are spinning madly.

"You're insane!" You sputter, but really, neither of you can take your words seriously because by now, you're giggling like a madwoman.

The two of you continue to spin until you both have flushed cheeks.

When the spinning finally stops, he smiles at you and says in a teasing tone, "You know, Rose, you're a helluva dancer."

You smile with him, and you even let out a little laugh, but the pain in your heart is still there; not even your one dance with him could make it go away.

"I might just say the same thing about you, Jack," you reply.

From the backyard comes the final strains of your song, and you both listen as the last note eventually fades into the night.

You watch as Jack escorts his new wife into a shiny white car. Unlike the other wedding guests, you don't holler a good-bye as the car drives off. No, you already had your good-bye.

For whatever reason, you watch as the car gradually becomes a speck of white in the distance, and when it finally disappears, you feel like someone has plunged a thousand knives straight into your heart.

(Jack's P.O.V.)

You love Patricia, of course. You married her, didn't you?

You're standing on the balcony that connects to your hotel room, looking out at the Gulf of Mexico. It's not an ocean, but it's enough for you, and you take notice of the moon's reflection in the water. It's such a peaceful, tranquil scene.

Indeed, it's a scene that clashes with your troubled mind.

Patricia is inside your hotel room, fast asleep. In all honestly, her falling asleep so soon after the consummation of your marriage surprised you. What surprised you even more, however, was how happy you were to escape to the balcony for some privacy afterwards.

You love Patricia, you really do. She's your wife, the woman that you'll spend the rest of your life with. The two of you have become one flesh, and it is her that will one day bear your children. It is her that you will grow old with. Someday, your grave will be next to hers.

Yes, you love Patricia.

But you never would have married her if you had not been too late in realizing that Rose loves you back.

Yes, there really is such a thing as being too late after all.

The End