The words hang between us.
Marina's lips part. Close. She looks away.
"It's almost over anyway," she says quietly. "The sad part's coming."
"The ship sinks. I know how it ends."
"Everyone knows how it ends. That's not the point."
"Then what's the point?"
She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Stares at the frozen screen.
"The point is that she survives," Marina says. "She loses everything. The man she loves. The life she was supposed to have. But she survives. She lives for eighty more years. She has children and grandchildren and a whole life that nobody expected her to have."
Her voice cracks on the last word.
She's not talking about the movie anymore.
I know it. She knows it.
"Marina."
"Don't." She holds up a hand. "Just... don't. I'm fine."
She's not fine.
But I don't push.
I've pushed enough.
"Play the movie," I say.
Marina hesitates. Then she presses the button.
The ship moves again. The violins swell. The woman on the screen stares out at the water like she's looking for something she'll never find.
I don't watch the television.
I watch Marina.
The way the blue light plays across her face. The way her jaw tightens when something sad happens. The way she pulls her knees closer to her chest, making herself smaller.
Marina's breath catches.
I don't understand crying over movies.
But I understand her.
And right now, that's enough.
Marina turns her head.
Our eyes meet.
She catches me staring.
I don't look away. Don't pretend I was watching the movie. Don't make excuses.
