Titanic offers its timeless, tragic love story to me once again. I shriek, I sob, I hug my pillow for comfort. I wait for the final scene. The one that always knocks down all my walls. It’s an imaginary scene after Leo dies. There is an audience of people all standing around the grand staircase. Kate begins to ascend toward Leo, who is waiting at the top. When she finally reaches him they kiss, cementing their love, allowed to blossom if only in a dream. The audience, gracious and supportive, erupts in enamored applause. It will never happen, of course, since Leo freezes to death, but the scene represents what could have been without turmoil and suffering.

I am lying in bed sobbing when Manda Panda comes bouncing through the door. I try to suck in my wails, but she sees me and comes running to my bed. “Oh my God, are you OK?! What happened? Who did this to you?! I will go after them and I will destroy them. Just say the name.”

I sit up, heaving in despair. I can’t stop crying. “It’s just so beautiful,” I say through tears. “Their love”—pointing at the movie credits—“so pure and innocent. Why can’t I have something like that?”

“Wait. You were watching Titanic? Why would you do that to yourself on such a nice day?”

“I had to do it for theater class.”

“I just came back to grab my tennis racket, but do you want me to sit with you for a bit? I have some time.”

I shake my head no, blowing my nose.

“It’s OK. I have to practice this scene now anyways.”

“That nutty professor has you acting out scenes from Titanic?”

“No, another play. We had to watch sappy movies to open our hearts.”

“Did Tina teach you nothing? Keep that sucker closed. If you’re all right, I’ll catch ya later.”

I return Cold Mountain to its case. I was going to watch both today, but I’m already eviscerated. My guard is down. I am without my protections. My heart, like the Defiance on its white horses, comes galloping back to me, covering me in a blanket of transcendent energy.

I grab the script and stand in front of the mirror. All the vulnerability I could not summon earlier comes flooding out. I feel my higher self nearby, again gently encouraging me forward. The gladiator rests and the characters come alive with emotion. We are united, the characters and me, meeting at the intersection of the words and my living interpretation. Professor Nielson was right. This is the only way theater can be done. The actor has to leave it all onstage and offer the luminosity of their insides, then pray the audience appreciates the magnificence of what has been given so Russell Crowe never has to ask the question again.