Prompt: things you said with too many miles between us

This prompt came from a friend who loves Doomsday, so... angst ahead, my friends. Assumes an established relationship with some kind of telepathy, because hey, if I'm gonna make this hurt, why not go all out?

With his cheek pressed to a white wall, the Doctor felt cold distance settle between him and Rose. His empty hand twitched at his side; since he'd taken Rose's hand in that basement over two years ago, they'd hardly ever been separated by more than a few miles. This… this felt wrong.

After a moment, even the faintest sense of her presence disappeared. The Doctor stifled a moan of protest and forced himself to turn his back on the wall and walk away. His Chucks made a soft scraping noise as he shuffled slowly towards the door, barely picking his feet up off the floor.

When he reached the TARDIS, the ship tried to wrap comfort around his raw, aching mind, but she couldn't fill the emptiness left behind by Rose's absence. The Doctor had known, he'd known when he'd allowed himself to form a telepathic connection with Rose that it would hurt one day. Rose was human, and despite her promise of forever, their time together would be all too short.

But he'd never dreamed they would only have a few months. He'd thought… he'd imagined… A low moan escaped his lips. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to get rid of the pain, but the hollow ache remained.

Two months later, the emptiness in his mind felt just as wrong as it had the day she fell—only today it was worse, because he could see her, but still not feel her. He stared helplessly at the image of Rose standing on a beach, wanting nothing more than to reach out and wipe the tears from her face.

"Am I ever going to see you again?" she asked, and the sob in her voice and the way she hid her face cut him to the quick.

The Doctor swallowed hard, but he still barely forced the words past the lump in his throat. "You can't."

She sucked in a breath. "What're you going to do?"

"Oh, I've got the TARDIS." He rocked back on his heels, trying not to look as devastated as he felt. "Same old life, last of the Time Lords."

Rose shook her head at him, and he knew she'd seen through his attempt at calm equinamity. "On your own?"

And oh, that question was painfully familiar. More than anything, he wished he could offer the hesitant invitation he'd given the first time she'd asked it—"Why, don't you want to come?" Instead, he shook his head, unable to voice his denial.

She nodded once, and fresh resolve settled in her expression."I—" The rest of the sentence got stuck in her throat, and as he watched her look out at the ocean, trying to regain her composure, he knew what she wanted to say. "I love you."

And there they were. The words they'd never spoken, only acknowledged now, when they would never see each other again.

The Doctor instinctively tried to reach for her, to show her how much he loved her, but without her in his mind, the attempt sent a bolt of pain through his head. "Quite right, too," he managed to say, despite the pounding in his skull.

Rose's eyes beseeched him to say something more, and he had never been able to deny her anything when she looked at him like that. It was his turn to draw a fortifying breath, and then he looked at her, willing her to see the truth in his eyes even as he spoke it aloud. "And I suppose, if it's my last chance to say it…" His mind tried to reach out again, and he frantically locked down his barriers before completing the sentence. "Rose Tyler—"

The image of Rose and Bad Wolf Bay faded, then disappeared altogether, leaving the Doctor standing alone in the TARDIS, his mouth open to form the words she'd never hear.