AN: This is my first try at the Doctor Who fandom, I am an absolute fan of Rose and the Tenth Doctor and still heartbroken over them. Hope you'll enjoy this. Reviews are always wecome.

…

That he is scarcely seen alone should not suggest that the Doctor isn't a loner. He is, in fact, always alone, by rule, now. It's the way of the world. Last of the Time Lords. It's the price of a won war which rarely feels as if it's actually been won, and never feels as though it has been worth it. But there is something about his newest regenerated self, all smiles and games and charisma, which frightens him. Of course, there is something about her, too.

He did not know, right from the beginning, that she would be different. Grabbing her hand and drawing her into flight, she was just a girl that he was saving, a beaming flash of blond hair that did not leave any immediate impression on his mind. Then she stayed with him, for a while, and she gave him what his other companions had before her. She was someone to impress, someone to make his discoveries mean something. But she also gave things that were new – things that felt new, although he was no stranger to sentiment. It'd been long enough since he'd felt any that he felt like a stranger. By the time that he knew this, of course, it was a little late to run.

And then he changed, which made it worse, the new him was impulsive and eager. He could tell, in the way that she looked at him, that there were no longer any limits to what she wanted to give him. There was still enough caution hiding inside of his passionate self that he took little. But he took some. Letting her kiss him – who he thought was her – all wild and hungry during one escapade in New New York. Telling her that she was different, after they ran into Sarah Jane, and perhaps he did not know it himself for sure until he said it. Watching the look of betrayal on her almost teenage face, he felt, deep inside of him, that he could not keep her, and that it went against what every fiber in his body wanted.

He would try. He was too far gone not to.

…

"Forever," was what she'd answered when he asked her how long she would stay with him, and there had been such candor in that reply, such an unawareness as to the cruelty of the word, that he had wanted to save her, right there and then, from him, from herself, from the blazing feelings that had made her reply honest. Humans had no means to comprehend Forever, but Rose Tyler had said it with such solemn devotion, it had occurred to him that she thought she knew better than him and she would show him, sooner or later. The belief in her was so fierce with allegiance and youthful yearning, he had wanted to believe it too.

There had been occasions for him to say it, before it was too late, moments of relief after they had saved the day and he was holding her, her heart racing against his flesh. There were moments when he had looked at her and he had thought that it would not hurt to say it. But always, some strange caution had held him back – he had been afraid to say it, afraid that it would crumble all of the remaining walls between them, and there would only be him and Rose and infinity. What was truly frightening about that, was that he wanted it. He saw the lively-spirited desire inside of her and how unafraid she was to love him, how unafraid she was of everything he'd shown her, how sure she was of what she wanted, and he wanted to want it with her, to let go of that terrible burden of a past, to be young again.

He never said it, mind you, even when his want for her was burning every last bridge of prudence in his mind. He was aware, inside his bones, that it was cowardice, but made up a different reason. What he told himself was, She knows.

…

Alone, inside his time machine, even after Rose is gone, the Doctor thinks about forever and about the things he didn't tell her. What would it have cost me, he thinks, what could I have possibly have thought I would be losing? It wasn't only fear that had kept him silent, of course, but pride. There could not be a least unworthy human to be infatuated with, but he had been alone for so long, had been great in his misery, had been the carrier of an immortal suffering, the last messenger of the Time Wars and genocide. He had not been all of those things, with Rose, but himself. This, he knows, is the reason why he never told her. He was not ready to let go of his dead kin, hundreds of ghosts holding on to him with all the might of their tiny claws, forcing him into his rank in history, making him forget about the present. Greatness is a two-edged word, he should have remembered.

For Rose, he had wanted to become nothing greater than the man she deserved.

A pink jacket lays forgotten in some corner, he used to tell her to be careful about not leaving her things everywhere. He can still see the defying smile on her lips when he admonished her, how well-aware she was of what she had on him.

She knew, he repeats to himself, maybe for comfort. Most certainly, she knew.

But that doesn't excuse him for not telling her. That doesn't excuse him for his reluctance at being human, with her, of letting go of things that were gone, when it mattered, when she was not.

"I love you, Rose Tyler," he says to his empty TARDIS, now, when the words are of no consequence, and finds it ironical that he is not alone, now, even when he is. The reverse used to be true, so perhaps this is some effect of poetic justice.

Rose is a burning blast in his mind, even after he lost her, she has become a part of him, just like his dead people, but there is a striking difference – he is not alone with her.

It is only now that he realizes. He has never been alone with her.