Okay, so this is actually a jumble of thoughts that escalated into a rant, which then escalated into a drabble. I just needed to sort out some feelings about Journey's End, so… here we are. Enjoy, and I know I sound totally desperate, but don't forget to R&R!

Rose Tyler knew something was off, the moment she'd kissed the Doctor – or, at least, the other Doctor.

First, she'd thought it wasn't right – it wasn't him – but then, he'd whispered into her ear something she'd been praying for without even knowing it.

He'd told her everything she'd ever wanted to hear from him. He loved her. Everything would have been falling into place, except there was something wrong – terribly wrong. She could feel it, every time she paused in one of their conversations and tried to put her finger on what was amiss, why she felt so awfully hollow. Whenever he kissed her and her mind took her somewhere else, somewhere better. Every time she tried to tell him she loved him, too, and the words got stuck in her throat. She knew there was something off. For a while, she stayed comfortably in a zone of denial – she just hadn't settled into her new life yet, she told herself. All she needed was time. And him.

But, slowly, slowly she realized what was wrong. The weight of realization crushed her, and finally, she understood.

He wasn't the Doctor. He would never be the Doctor. He was John Smith, half Time Lord, half human. A second choice. He could never fly through the stars with her. He shared all the memories of the places they'd been, the people they'd seen and what they'd felt. But those feelings, to him – those feelings were memories. His eyes could never light up whenever he saw her, like her Doctor's once had. Their conversations would always miss something unreachable and abstract. That hollow feeling would never go away.

Over time, she might have been able to love him, but she knew it would be a dull, watered down sort of love – being in love with what he represented, not with him. She knew she'd never love him as much as she loved her Doctor.

And, for a moment, she was absolutely certain the man – the clone – that the Doctor had given her as an apology, a consolation present, could never love her as much as the Doctor had.

There was a voice in Rose's head arguing against this. Hadn't the Doctor lied? He'd never told her he loved her. He'd been a coward. Two opportunities, both missed. He'd left without even saying goodbye.

She'd started thinking about their last words to each other, turning them over and over in her head until they were empty sounds, words without meaning.

"Answer me this. When I last stood on this beach on the worst day of my life, what was the last thing you said to me?"

"I said, 'Rose Tyler'."

"Yeah, and how was that sentence going to end?"

"Does it need saying?"

At the time, she'd thought, judging by his hard face, that he didn't want to love her, or didn't want to say it. He was avoiding it, as he so often had. But now, she wondered to herself: did it need saying?

No, she realized. It didn't need saying. It had been obvious in every fleeting look, imbibing every word, could be seen in both their eyes. Written all over each other's faces – but they'd been too blind to see it. They had been in love, all along… if only she could go back now! She'd run to him, telling him he didn't need to say it. That she'd be content simply existing in their love, falling deeper each passing day. Travelling through space and time, or working in a shop like she'd done before he'd turned up – if they had been together, she'd have done anything. As long as he was there.

She knew he'd have loved her unconditionally. She understood, now - he'd have done anything for her, and she'd have done exactly the same. They'd have been – as they once were – so much better together.

And a clone of what was once her entire world just couldn't give her that.