A/N: English is not my native language; therefore I'm sorry for any spelling and/ or grammar mistakes that might be ahead.
The story is a *fan*fiction, therefore – I am not the actual owner of Doctor Who.
There he is, sitting in the empty room, trying to make sense. "It wasn't me" became his catch phrase; nightmares became his friends; tears became his truth.
The room had massive concrete walls, with scribbles on the sides: days, months, years, names, which he will soon memorize. He will be added to the list soon. Clara will be added to the list soon.
The mentioning of Clara, in his mind, was impossible to bear– never to speak of, certainly not to write of. Writing means proof, and proof means coping. Coping was never his strong feature, when dealing with emotions. Aliens on the other hand were always a piece of cake.
The doctor walked around the room knowing there is no one to call to, to plead to. The room was definitely not built for him, for he encountered cells much greater than this one. But after all they did decide to dump him in that room. "Of all rooms they picked the one with the look of boredom and the smell of age" he would often think.
Daily log, day 1
"Note taking always seemed so human to me. Unfortunately, my sonic was taken along with my TARDIS and desires. So here I am, writing a log. I don't understand. Why here? It makes no sense… There isn't much time to explain, really, but it doesn't add up. I know what happened. And it wasn't me. I mean... No. It wasn't me. "
The doctor gazed up and caught his breath. "Since when was I sitting in the corner of the room? Corners are for the weak, for the wounded, for those who are scared easily. I am not a bloody human. I don't do scared. Not anymore.
"I have a feeling it's been five hours now. Maybe five days? This room is… and the dates... and the names… why are there so many names? Why are they all familiar?"
Hours later the doctor woke up from a dream. It was the kind of dream you don't want to wake up from, since it seems real. Too real. So real that you wake up. He will try and relive that dream over and over again, seeing her, talking to her. With a face that isn't his. With the face of a dead man. Seeing her again, creating herself, would be the gift of a lifetime. Because between yes and no there is a lifetime. And it isn't about the choice you made. It's about who you thought you are, and what your choices have made you into.
A/N: I am aware that this is really short. But I got my finals exams so I don't have much time .