He knows it's true the moment she says it. "Forever." So careless, too, such a throwaway little word (miniscule, really – just two syllables and seven tiny letters). Sometimes he thinks about that moment, thinks back to when he thought she was always going to be around. It's been two hundred years for him, and if she had stayed with him, she'd be long gone anyway.
Gone. Even smaller than forever. He didn't know which word hurt him more.
He remembers the day she wore the purple shirt and the night it got flung over the bannister in their rush to be close to each other, touching and kissing and loving. He remembered her even when he forgot himself, locked away inside the fob watch. Dreamed about her too; dreamed he saw her walking away. Sometimes he's dying, and he'll ask the TARDIS to help and the voice interface will be himself and so, so innocently he'll ask for someone he likes. The TARDIS knows, she's telepathic, so Rose will appear and he will smile for a brief moment before asking how she's been.
("I am not Rose Tyler, I am a voice interface," it responds, and he'll stand.
"Don't think I'm dying today, then. See you tomorrow Rose?"
"I am not Rose Tyler, I am a voice interface.")
He knows it's true the moment she says it because he was already thinking it. "Forever." So sure, too, like it's this whole plan she has. Sometimes he opens a little drawer in his head and sometimes he files her away in a neat little (huge) folder he keeps for days like these.
Because he had bothered to hope that forever was a promise. But she was gone.
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