White Blank Page
A white blank page, and a swirling rage. He felt his insides retreat from numbness and allow his gripping, terrifying pain to come back. He tore the page from its book, shredding it to pieces in order to release some of his tension. He felt bits of his grief subside as he watched the paper fall like a blanket of snow, covering the pristine-looking floors of the TARDIS.
Relief never lasted long, though, and soon he was tearing volumes at a time, no longer singular blank pages but those that contained thousands and millions of brilliant thoughts, thoughts he had once been so able to drown himself in. It made no matter if "The Great Gatsby" was scattered across the floor; Jay had gotten his heart broken as well, maybe this would save the fictional man from his eternal written prison. Even the Docto's most prized literary companions joined Gatsby; Moby Dick, a hoard of Dickens's characters…What was once read to subside pain was now a collection of tinder for the fire in his hearts.
He sat then, in the pile of white shreds, and looked upon the mess he had created/ His favorite things, his only eternal companions, destroyed by the sorrow that never seemed to end. The Doctor threw off his bowtie, kicked away his shoes, and began to weep.
A comforting hand found its way to his shoulder, and he was met with consoling brown eyes and a concerned façade; a face so sweet, so gentle and a mannerism so similar to the companion he'd found himself weeping over once again. Clara, however, was not his sweet Rose, and for that another round of tears fell.
"Tell me now, where was my fault in loving her with all my heart?" Clara was not daft; quite the opposite, she was brilliant. From the few things the Doctor had told her, and the name he continued to murmur as he wept, she knew that his pain centered on one thing; Rose.
"I don't know what you did, or how things happened, but there's nothing wrong with the way you love Rose." And with that she left, allowing him to pick up the scraps of paper as he continued to think.
There were words still intact, he realized, and looked upon the fragments in curiosity and renewed zeal. Some were tiny-a, than, of- while others –Brocklehurst- were full of memory. (Many a companion had thumbed through that copy of Jane Eyre, Rose most frequently so that he could still see where she'd underlined the parts she liked best-until he'd gone savage on his books.)
Forever. The fragment had come about when the mess was nearly gone, but instead of rage or sorrow (although both were still felt with ferocity) a grin was most prominent on his features. It was a sad smile, but still a smile.
(…)
"Aren't you going to get tired of me?" The Doctor had asked Rose one day, after a very long happening of events. She looked up from her book and smiled, shaking her head.
"Forever, remember?"
"If I mess up, if I anger you…"
"You won't." She's vehement, shaking her head and looking into him with honest eyes.
"If I do…" He's frightened, terrified of losing his Rose although he knows it's selfish and he can't keep her forever. She senses for the first time that he may not actually believe her promise.
"Lead me to the truth." She says, her soft voice consoling him. "Lead me to the truth, and I will follow you with my whole life."
He makes some teasing remark, and they end the night with tea and jokes in the library, cuddled close together.
(…)
He leaves Clara at the market the following day, and when he returns he carries a stack of new books.