They're gone. All of them. Rose Tyler, Martha Jones...
Donna Noble.
There is no one
left. Humans are so very finite. They grow old, they
wither, and
they die.
Even worse, and often long before, they move on.
Even when they offer me forever -- their forever -- it's
all they have,
and they willingly offer it to me.
Although
I smile, and take them to the ends of the universe, anywhere,
anywhen -- it's only a matter of time. A matter of time, before I
have
to let them go. A matter of time, whether fixed or in flux,
it always
comes. I'm always left alone.
Sometimes I
wonder -- if I'd been more selfish, or if I didn't care at
all --
would I move time and space to get them back? If I didn't care,
it
wouldn't matter. If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here, and maybe
home
would still be home. Then again, I might never have met them,
and
time would be eternal boredom and nothingness. Sometimes,
the
loneliness is worth it. As painful as it is, I wouldn't change
it. I
must move on as well. For them, as much as for myself.