Inspired by a Fall Out Boy lyric, this little drabble is my first Titanic story EVAR!1! Which is really quite silly, because I have been positively in love with Titanic for the last eleven years. The story is written from Jack's point of view and talks about how he looks at his relationship with Rose and wishes he didn't have to ask her to throw away her life for him. It's kind of a window into the mind of a character who seems ridiculously self-assured, and I'm kind of setting out to prove that there were times he doubted that he was Rose's best choice. Anyway, I don't own Titanic. Enjoy - and I 3 reviews! ;)


Isn't it messed up, how I'm just dying to be him?

Of all the things I am now and have ever been, 'myself' is near the top of the list. I know who I am. I've always had a pretty strong sense of self – maybe because when that's all you have, you hang onto it for dear life. I've never had to be anything for anybody else, so I've always just been Jack. Particularly after I lost my parents. When you're sleeping under a different bridge each night, there's really no need for anybody else's approval.

The way I saw it, the only person I would ever be living for was me.

But that all changed when I met her.

Suddenly, I'm not good enough. On so many levels. And don't get me wrong – she's done nothing but reassure me that I was exactly all that she needed since day one. But the thing is, I'm not. To stay with me, she would have to give up everything about her that makes her the person she is. The person she always has been.

If she chose me, she would be going from riches to rags, down pillows to rolled-up moth-eaten jackets, leisure and homemaking to life as a seamstress somewhere. It would be a shitty life – a life that she wasn't brought up to face. It's wrong to ask somebody to do all of that for you. But she's made it pretty clear that she's not giving me up or going anywhere.

So why can't I be him?

When Cal Hockley brushed shoulders with me in the first-class dining hall, I felt something unfamiliar. A burning resentment – a strange dissatisfaction that I could have almost called anger. He was him. I was me. And it wasn't fair. She wouldn't have to change for him. She could keep her mother and her friends and her life.

He had so much more to offer. For the first time in my life, I wanted to have all that. Simply so I could offer it to her. I've never wanted to be anything but me, but suddenly I hated myself for not having wool suits and Cuban cigars and a wine cellar waiting for me in the United States. For the first time, Jack Dawson the artist wasn't enough.

Is falling in love supposed to feel like this?