You’re more vibrant than you were the last time I saw you. Not prettier, exactly—though of course you’re lovely—but more solid. Even in the dim light of the Promenade Deck, your eyes sparkle and your freckles stand out. For a moment I’m struck mute by the sight of you.

You shiver in the cold, despite your coat. “Mr. Peterson—Liam—don’t you belong in a lifeboat?”

“Don’t you?”

In that moment, we share a connection. We’re each forsaking a place of safety to help others.

That comparison isn’t fair to you, of course. You’re a real heroine while I’m a theme park worker who’s pretending to be a historian who’s pretending to be a hero.

You start to protest but I shake my head. “I know. You’re worried about those you left behind. Do what you can to save them. But meet me at your cabin at 2:05 a.m. Can you do that?”

Your eyes go wide. “Why?”

“Trust me, Clara. Please.”

You’re so much paler than you were the last time. And with sufficient time and light, I could count the hairs that have fled your updo.

Your lips purse in determination. “I’ll do my best.”

“And I promise I’ll be there, Clara.”

That coaxes the tiniest smile out of you. “I—” You shake your head. “I have to go.” You give me one last look, then turn your back to me and walk up the deck again. Once you’re out of sight, the holoactors disappear and the noise and music cut off like they were muted.

Rocky’s laughing. “Thought you were gonna kiss her.”

“Shut up.”

—from Titanic Voyage