Chapter 129
~ Franklin ~
We settled in to watch Titanic, the soft blue glow of Octavia’s laptop screen casting flickering shadows across the hospital room walls. I gently guided her head to rest on my shoulder, her hair brushing my cheek like silk. The laptop balanced carefully on our thighs, warm from the running movie, while the faint hum of the air conditioner and distant hallway footsteps reminded us we weren’t truly alone. Yet in that mont, the world outside the ward faded. It was just us, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of shared silence and a story that felt heavier than fiction.
"How many tis have you watched this movie before?" Octavia asked, glancing up at with those bright, curious eyes that still managed to steal my breath.
"Many tis—enough for to know exactly how it ends," I shrugged, keeping my tone light.
"That’s not the answer I was looking for," she said, frowning in that adorable, stubborn way that made my chest tighten.
"It is for ," I replied, and she rolled her eyes, pausing the movie with a dramatic tap on the keyboard before turning fully toward .
"Rember, you’re going to sit here and watch it properly," she instructed, her voice firm but playful. "Don’t watch . Watch the movie instead."
"Yes, ma’am," I smirked faintly, saluting her with mock seriousness. She hit play again, and for a while we sat in comfortable quiet, the sweeping orchestral score filling the room like a tide.
I couldn’t help it, though. I stole a glance at her. She was completely invested, her expression shifting with every scene—the subtle furrow of her brow during tense monts, the soft parting of her lips in wonder. Every little reaction pulled at sothing deep inside . She felt everything so vividly, so openly. It made watching the film almost impossible because my mind kept drifting to the sa aching question: Would she ever feel that way about us again? If her mories returned, would the old hurts eclipse this fragile new connection we were building? The thought lingered like a shadow at the edge of the screen.
Halfway through, she paused the movie abruptly. "Wait," she said, turning to with narrowed eyes.
"What now?" I groaned, though I couldn’t hide the amused smile tugging at my lips.
"Why didn’t Jack get on the door with her?" she demanded, gesturing at the frozen image of the floating debris. "That door was clearly big enough to work like a raft on the ocean."
I groaned again, rubbing my forehead. "Here we go again."
"What did you say?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Nothing," I replied quickly, biting back a laugh. "There wasn’t enough space."
"There was, Franklin. He didn’t even try properly," she insisted, her passion for the scene making her lean forward.
"First Allie, now Jack?" I mumbled under my breath.
"I heard that," she shot back, but her eyes sparkled with challenge.
"You’re overthinking it," I told her gently.
"No, you’re under-thinking it," she countered, folding her arms. "Jack sacrificed himself—that’s the whole point of the story."
"Or maybe it was unnecessary," she added softly, shaking her head.
"You think his death was unnecessary?" I raised a brow, genuinely intrigued by her take.
"Yes. If you love soone, you fight to survive with them," she said firmly, her voice carrying a quiet conviction that hit harder than any on-screen tragedy. Sothing about her words resonated deeper than the movie ever could. She believed in fighting for love, even without rembering the battles we’d already faced. It mirrored everything I was doing now—holding on, refusing to let go.
"And if surviving together isn’t possible?" I asked quietly, my gaze locked on hers.
She hesitated, the weight of the question settling between us like the cold Atlantic in the film. Then she spoke with quiet resolve. "You make it possible."
I stared at her, the depth of her belief stealing the air from my lungs. Even with her mories locked away, she still carried that fire—that unyielding hope. It gave strength and terrified all at once.
"But not everything works like that, you know," I said, my voice low.
"Well, maybe not for you," she chuckled softly, the sound warm and teasing. I exhaled, letting her lightness ease the tension.
"And what does that an?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"I don’t know...I just feel like if sothing is real, you don’t let it go that easily," she shrugged, her words lingering in the air like a promise. They were exactly what I was living by. I didn’t want to let her go. Not now. Not ever.
She hit play again, and we resud watching in a comfortable hush. The film unfolded toward its heartbreaking close, the music swelling as the ship slipped beneath the waves. Octavia didn’t cry outright, but her eyes grew glossy, shimring with unshed tears she tried to blink away. I stayed silent, respecting the emotion that had clearly gripped her. The story had touched sothing raw inside her, perhaps echoing feelings she couldn’t yet na.
"Who’s crying now?" I teased gently once the credits rolled.
"I’m not crying," she protested, quickly wiping at her eyes. "The movie is just a masterpiece."
"If you say so," I murmured, reaching into my pocket for my handkerchief. "Here— it’s clean." I handed it to her, and she took it with a soft "thank you," dabbing at her cheeks.
Just then, a light knock sounded at the door before it swung open. "Dinner ti," Patricia said softly, stepping inside with a plastic bag that slled of warm, ho-cooked comfort. Octavia turned, her expression softening instantly.
"Mom," she greeted, voice warm with affection.
Patricia smiled gently, setting the tray down on the bedside table. "Don’t tell you forgot I was coming."
"Nah, I never did. You called, rember?" Octavia replied, already reaching for the food with quiet gratitude. "Thank you, Mom."
"Hey, Franklin," Patricia added, nodding toward with a kind smile that had grown warr these past weeks.
"Hello, Mrs. Herman," I greeted back, returning the nod as her smile widened.
After Octavia finished eating, Patricia excused herself, sensing the easy comfort between us and giving us space. The door clicked shut, leaving us alone once more. Octavia looked at suddenly, a playful glint in her eyes.
"What?" I asked, raising a brow.
"Stand up," she said.
"Why?" I frowned slightly.
"Just do it," she insisted, her tone leaving no room for argunt.
I sighed but stood anyway, curious. She slid off the bed carefully, positioning herself in front of before turning around. "Hold ," she whispered.
"I want to hold you, but I don’t understand what you’re trying to do," I said, stepping closer and wrapping my arms around her waist with careful tenderness.
"Don’t worry—you’ll see," she murmured. She lifted her arms slightly, closing her eyes as if surrendering to the mont. "Now I’m Rose, and you’re Jack. Just like in that scene at the edge of the ship... he holds her like this, she closes her eyes, and Rose says, ’I’m flying, Jack.’ And Jack would say...?"
I grinned, playing along as I stared at her. "’I’m the king of the world!’" I declared dramatically.
She giggled, the sound pure and light, then turned in my arms to wrap hers around fully. "It was at that mont that Rose felt, for the first ti, she was liberated," she whispered, gazing up at with an intensity that made my heart stutter.
We leaned closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of the mont, lips inches apart—until she winced sharply, clutching her forehead.
"What’s wrong, baby? Are you in pain again?" I asked, concern flooding as I carefully guided her back to the bed.
"Franklin," she said slowly, her voice strained.
"Hush, baby. Don’t say anything," I soothed, helping her settle against the pillows.
"Franklin," she repeated, as if chasing a whisper slipping through the fog.
"Are you trying to rember again? Please don’t—you’re going to hurt yourself and—"
"There’s a na I rembered," she said softly, lowering her hand from her forehead. The wince eased, but her eyes were distant, searching.
"What na?" I asked, curiosity sharpening into sothing colder.
"Bella Washington," she murmured. "The na just popped into my head."
Everything inside froze. The air in the room felt suddenly thin, the hospital beeps louder in my ears. She rembered Bella Washington. That could only an the rest of her mories were stirring, cracking open like ice under pressure. And with them might co the truth of our fractured past—the fights, the betrayal, the pain I’d caused.
"Who is Bella Washington?" she asked, her voice quiet but insistent. "Do you know who she is?"
The question hung between us, heavy and inevitable. I stared at her, heart pounding, knowing in that instant that her mories were returning—soon, perhaps too soon. And I wasn’t nearly prepared for what they might bring.
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