⚠️ Content Warning:
This entry reflects on early childhood memories, emotional experiences, and themes of love, loss, and connection. Reader discretion is advised.
If this made you cry, just know… I felt it too.
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The First Time I Saw Titanic
There are some memories that don’t feel big at the time—
but they stay.
This was one of them.
We were living in a small apartment.
The kind where everything felt close together—walls thin, rooms small, the TV lighting up most of the space when it was on.
I remember the glow of the screen more than anything.
My mother sat next to me as we watched a bittersweet movie.
The sound felt louder than the space could hold.
I don’t remember exactly where I was—
maybe curled into the couch, maybe leaning into the cushions—
but I remember feeling physically still, like I didn’t want to move or miss anything.
And I remember her being there.
That mattered.
We were watching Titanic.
I loved it—even as a child.
Not because I understood it fully—
but because I felt it.
I remember getting lost in it…
almost like being pulled into each moment as it unfolded.
The way they looked at each other.
The tension.
The quiet, playful moments that slowly turned into something deeper.
I was drawn to that.
The chemistry between them—
the way he saw her differently than everyone else did,
the way he could be soft but also bold, like there was more to him beneath the surface.
I noticed that.
Even then.
There were moments of closeness I didn’t fully understand at the time,
but I recognized the feeling behind them—
connection, curiosity, something that felt important.
And yes… I remember noticing him too.
Something about him stood out to me, even if I didn’t have the words for why.
And honestly, that never really changed—
even now, when I think about that movie, it’s that version of him that stayed with me.
I was paying attention to all of it.
The tension.
The way they chose each other.
The way they held onto each other.
The way something real was forming in the middle of everything else.
It felt like love.
At least, what I understood love to be at that age.
And then everything shifted.
The ship.
The panic.
The cold.
The sounds changed.
The feeling in the room changed.
I remember my chest tightening.
My body going quiet.
Watching people hold onto each other as everything fell apart.
I cried—just a little.
Soft, quiet… almost hidden.
Just enough to feel it without letting it fully out.
I remember the scene where the mother held her children, accepting what was coming, trying to comfort them anyway.
That stayed with me.
The chaos on the ship—
people fighting, people accepting,
the limited lifeboats,
the weight of who would live and who wouldn’t.
Even the captain…
not just as a captain, but as a man choosing to stay as everything went down.
That meant something to me.
Jack dying stayed with me.
The idea that something could be that strong—
and still not last.
And Rose living.
That part felt important too.
And at the end—
when she let the necklace fall into the ocean—
something about that moment stayed with me.
It felt like letting go.
Like holding onto something forever in your heart,
even when it’s no longer in your life.
Even the captain—
staying with the ship as it went down—
that stayed with me too.
Loyalty.
Commitment.
Not leaving, even when everything is falling apart.
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Reflection
Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t just watching a movie.
I was learning something.
I didn’t have the words for it then—but I felt it.
I was drawn to the connection between them—
the way they looked at each other,
the tension, the closeness,
the way he saw her differently than everyone else did.
There was something about that I noticed.
Not just love—
but a certain kind of love.
And looking back now, I can see what I was really learning.
Not in words—but in feeling.
That love was something intense.
Something with an edge to it.
Not just soft—but something that pulled you in and held you there.
That attraction wasn’t just about liking someone—
but about feeling drawn to them in a way that felt emotional… almost a little dangerous.
And that connection—
was being seen differently.
Chosen differently.
Not just another person in the room—
but someone who mattered in a deeper way.
I didn’t understand that at the time.
But I carried it.
I think, without realizing it, I started to understand love as something like that—
not just soft, but deep.
Something you feel in your chest.
Something that stays with you.
I didn’t know that’s what I was taking in at the time.
But looking back now—
I can see that I wasn’t just watching a story.
I was forming an idea of what love looked like…
before I even understood what love really was.
And maybe, back then,
in that small apartment,
sitting in that quiet space beside her—
I wasn’t just watching a movie.
I was learning what I believed love was supposed to be.
And maybe that’s why, even now, I don’t just want love—I want to feel chosen, seen, and held in something that’s real and undeniable.
“Place me like a seal over your heart,
like a seal on your arm;
for love is as strong as death…
Many waters cannot quench love;
rivers cannot sweep it away.”
- Song of Solomon 8:6-7
