I snort and plunk down on the couch.

I feel myself tear up almost as soon as the Paramount logo clears the screen. The rumble, those first few instrumental notes, then the vocals start and I’m ready to fall apart. The sepia imagery begins, people waving goodbye for the last time, not knowing it’s the last time. I heard that James Cameron used some real footage in that part, but I don’t know if it’s true. It hardly matters, it’s devastating. Especially when it cuts to the inky-blue water, gently churning.

Why do I love this movie so much? I mean, besides the fact that it’s literally a perfect film.

I think about it as Bill Paxton navigates the wreckage.

It always makes me cry, this movie. In real life, I never cry. I never get choked up, I never tear up. It’s like I save it all up for the big catharsis. The Notebook too.

God, I’m basic.

A little while later, Jack Dawson has just won tickets to America in a poker game when there’s a knock on the door.

“I got it,” says Kiera.

She gets up and opens it. It’s Cillian.

I flush and try, idiotically, to hide that I’m wearing his rugby sweatshirt.

He’s holding a brown paper bag and he looks past Kiera to me. I pause the movie and wave at him. “Hi.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say, and then burst into tears.

I’m suddenly flooding with emotions. Were these my options? Stone-cold ice queen or Waterworld: The Person?

He hands Kiera the bag and comes to crouch in front of me on the floor. “What’s happened?”

I look at Kiera.

“I’d say it’s bad tact to go talking about it, but then again, I don’t think there are rules about this kind of thing,” she says.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s not—”

“Don’t tell me then,” he says. “Not if you don’t want. Are you okay?”

His tone is efficient, and it lends me a feeling of stability I can’t give myself at the moment.

“I’m okay,” I say. “It’s some … it’s some other-life bullshit.”

He exchanges a look with Kiera as he puts a hand on my knee. As he does, he sees what’s on the screen. “Oh, fuck’s sake,” he says.

“You’re welcome to stay and watch,” I say, suddenly, through another unexpected urge to burst into laughter.

Kiera mutters something to him as she passes him with the food. I don’t hear what she says, but whatever it was, he responds to me, saying, “It can’t hurt to watch it a sixteenth time, I suppose.”

He’s brought over chicken soup with white rice and seemingly fresh bread with salted butter.

“Is this your soup, Cillian?” Kiera asks. “Must be, it’s the best.”