Dear Rose,
"I love you." Those words I always meant to say but never did. But you knew. Of course you knew. I saw it in your eyes after each narrow escape, as we ducked around some corner, breathing hard, and I took your hand and all I could think about was how utterly thankful I was that you were still alive and with me. And you would smile your special smile, the one you only show for me, and in that moment I knew that if I reached out for you, you would come to me, but I didn't, I didn't, because I was afraid of this, of what I'm feeling right now as I write this letter that will never reach you. In your language, it's called heartbreak. The Gallifreyan word translates roughly to "death of the soul."
Oh, Rose. I'm dying. I'm dying and you're so far away, living a life that I could only dream of and never have. And I never told you how I feel about you, not in words, at least, and I know how your people say that actions speak louder than words and maybe they do but words are pretty damn important, too. And what kind of actions did I take, anyways? Stole you from your home and showed you the universe and put you in dangerous situations that you always found a way out of by yourself but you ended up giving all the credit to me, and I knew you were lying and you knew you were lying but you thought you were making me feel important and so you felt important and because you felt important I felt important so we left each other have our fictions, dancing around those three little words, those three big words, alway feeling them and never saying them and I should have said them and you should have said them and maybe we're both to blame or maybe it's just me but it hardly matters now because I'm dying a universe away from you and I haven't told you I love you. You said it, on that awful day in Norway, and somehow I could burn up a star for you but I couldn't just tell you how I felt. I suppose I thought that if I didn't say the words they wouldn't be true and my hearts wouldn't break and my soul wouldn't die. But I was wrong, so wrong, because those words are now a knife in my chest, tearing me apart.
I want to love you, Rose. I want to hold you close to me at night and watch you while you sleep and sing Gallifreyan love songs to you. I can sing quite well, did you know that? I wonder if you can. I never asked.
I'm going to die soon, Rose. I don't want to go. But I have to.
Have a wonderful life, Rose. Do that for me. Have kids, if you want. Or not. It's your choice. Marry my other self or marry someone else or stay single, I don't care. But be happy, Rose, whatever you do. Don't miss me for a single second. You may have made me a better person, but I'll never deserve you. But at least I can pretend I tried.
I love you,
The Doctor