The stars are burning around her, she can see them, burning, combusting, exploding.
She can see the gas and the star dust painting the colorful spectrum of the nebulas that until now, she could only appreciate in the telly and the magazines.
She's here, right now; the precious moment where the stars begin to die and the new ones are born from the cells of the old ones.
She's here right now.
And the only thing she can let herself to think is "How am I breathing in space?"
The man. Her raggedy doctor, the doctor, just the doctor. He tells her something about expanders of oxygen.
It doesn't matter.
Because she's in space and she's in the TARDIS and everything is real.
It's not just a fairy tale.
Her hair is all over her face, and it doesn't matter.
She has to get married. The wedding was yesterday and it doesn't matter because she's in a time machine.
And she's in love with the man of her life. A wonderful man. A man that would wait for her until the end of the world and the start of the new millennium.
And it doesn't matter.
Because right now. Right here.
The stars are dying.