Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who.
Dreamweaver
"A rose that wont bloom, winters kept you, don't waste your whole life trying t get back what was taken away." (Kristy Are You Doing Okay?-The Offspring.)
The days trickle by, sometimes as slow as a leaky faucet, other times as raging and rabid as a rushing river. It worries her, and she tries to calculate the time in her head. There's a line that she'll cross eventually. There's a point where she'll have to stop. She'll wake up one morning, turn over and decide it's time: time to lock away the memories as best she can, look around, and place the pieces of her life in the right order. She's not sure what order that will be.
The thought scares her more than she lets on. Late at night, with only the stars she's never visited as her witness, she clings to consciousness, pushing away sleep. She doesn't want the morning to come; terrified that she'll have to try to forget him. She wonders if it will ruin her, or take away the biggest part of what makes her her. That's when the stars seem to mock her, sparkling high above her reach.
The weeks trickle by, sometimes faster than she'd like, other times not quick enough. It worries her more, and she tries not to calculate the time in her head. There's a line she still hasn't crossed. There's a stopping point that still eludes her. Every morning, she turns over and decides it's still not time. The memories still have free-reign in her head.
She wishes, more often than she'd like to admit, that "the time" would hurry up and come. Late at night, the stars start to suffocate her as she closes her eyes and tries to sleep. Hoping the morning comes quick and brings with it the closure that evades her, she drifts. She doesn't forget him and she worries that it's ruining her, taking away what maker her her. That's when the stars seem too close.
The years trickle by, some of them good, other ones bad. It hardly bothers her and she's long since lost track of the time in her head. She's finally crossed the line. That stopping point's far behind her. Most mornings, she turns over and only thinks of the sun on her face or the rain on her window. The memories lay lost in her head.
She tries, more often than she'll admit she should, to recall what her life was like before him; yet she always draws a blank. Late at night, she can't see the stars, ever, and she wishes she could remember her dreams. Not caring if the morning comes or what it might bring with it. She wants to remember him and she wonders if it's ruining her, taking away what her her. That's when the night seems blackest.
It's on a night like that when he shows up on her doorstep and the stars have never seemed more beautiful.
"You haven't given up on me, have you?"
She's not surprised to discover that she hasn't.
The End.