A/N: So hi and stuff… I'm kind of new to writing fanfiction and I'm honestly not sure if I want to continue with this story. I wrote this a long time ago and I'm not sure if I can continue it… Let me know if you like it though, and I guess we'll see what happens. Thanks for reading! I don't own Doctor Who or any of its characters by the way. I'm sure you know that but I figured I should say it anyway.
Beth Reever was alive. It was impossible to deny this fact. Air was going in and out of her lungs, blood was pumping through her veins, her heart was beating, and she was feeling and hoping and wishing and doing a lot of other very-alive, very-human things. But just as it was impossible to say that Beth wasn't living, it was impossible to say she wasn't dying as well. Not in the pessimistic "everyone's dying" sense, but in the greatly accelerated, before-her-time, cancer was slowly eating away her body kind of dying.
Beth knew this, Beth's family and friends knew this, and Beth's overly optimistic doctor, underneath all that painfully forced pep, knew this as well. Beth knew that despite all that air-in-lungs-blood-in-veins thing, she had about as much time left with the living as a high school senior had with public education. So while her mother and father cried, while her best friend stood there silently (rare for her) and while Dr. Too Much Coffee awkwardly patted her parents on the back, Beth made a promise: with her last year, she was going to have a change-your-life, see the world, Bucket List-esque adventure, during which the dreaded c-word would never be mentioned. Then maybe she could keep on living. Maybe, she could just live in that year forever. Maybe Beth Reever wouldn't have to die.
What she didn't know was that her only shot just happened to be in a blue police box, unknowingly landing into exactly where it was needed, and in the place where it belonged.
