You tell me that you love me, and that's how I know that you're not him.

All those days with him, the running and hand-holding. All those nights with him, the rocking and moaning. There were so many promises of forever, so many pleas of never leave me, but never a declaration of love, never out loud. Never that risk, never that commitment.

He tried. I know he tried. And I know he would have.

But now he can't, and you can. And I can't stop myself. My hands fly to your collar, pulling you close, and I can't help but hesitate one more time before leading your lips to mine. We crash together, first our lips, and then us, your arms around my torso, mine around your neck, and, oh, how I've missed you. This is familiar to me, your body pressed to mine, but the sensation of arms wrapped so tightly around me again has been long-lost before this moment is found. This kiss feels like deja vu and yet so real and so now. He's not you because he's still running, and you're standing still with me.

He's still here, though, watching us, and I try to pull back from you, the guilt spilling over. You don't let me, your arms wrapping even tighter around me. Typical you; once you have me back, you'll never let go. That's just like him, too, except that he's letting go.

(I don't blame him. I suppose that if I had asked him if I could stay with him, he would never be able to say no.)

But he's not you. I want a life of travel and I want it with you, but I want it with the you who will never hold back. The way your breath caught on the shell of my ear when you said it, I love you, I could hear the nerves and exhilaration in your voice at the feeling of freedom, and I could hear the joy and pain in your voice at the feeling of loving me.

You're not him, no.

There are differences, minute differences, like the singular heartbeat I can feel pounding opposite my own. (You probably won't enjoy getting used to that sensation, but right now you are too lost in the sensation of me, which I am all too okay with.) I've noticed a difference in your attitude; you have the snappy comebacks of your former, big-eared self. I am okay with that, as well. I am also okay with the human warmth that now radiates off of your skin everywhere that we touch. His body was shockingly cold against mine, but I am drawn to your heat.

I am kissing you, pulled against your body, exploring you and relearning you and drowning in you, and nothing can stop me until I hear that sound.

I pull back from you immediately, because I love you but I love him, and this will be my last chance to hear that sound, to see that blue box disappear off the horizon. (Later you will pull a tiny TARDIS coral out of your pocket and we will be on our way to see the universe once more, but for now, this is my goodbye.)

The TARDIS is gone too quickly, and he didn't properly say goodbye to me, and I can't help the tear that slips down my cheek. How do I react to something as monumental as that?

So I go to you, and I place my hand on your singular beating heart and I let myself breathe in and then breathe out, I love you. My Doctor.

And you say it back. I love you, my Rose.

And I know it. You're not him.

You're better.