Rose.
It was a name that had intertwined its way through all his thoughts for as long as he could remember.
He loved her, and she loved him, and they both knew it. Maybe the difference was, he still loved her.
Then he saw her, standing there. His gaze didn't even pass over her for a moment; in the depths of his mind, he was always watching for her.
She looked the same, and it broke his heart, and the wound he'd covered up so long ago grew fresher and fresher until it oozed. And the worst part, she stood there, looking at him, without a trace of recognition.
The first moment he looked at her, he knew in his two hearts that it was her. And it hurt, oh so badly, the way she looked at him.
For a moment, he tried to convince himself he was dreaming. He almost wished it, unwilling to open himself back up to the heartbreak he'd given himself when he was younger. Only a child.
Quietly, though, he allowed himself to believe it, if even just for a moment. Her name slipped out of his mouth, so soft that he probably wouldn't have noticed if her gaze hadn't snapped back to him.
"Rose."
Her eyebrows furrowed. "Sorry, do I know you?"
No. He wouldn't let her feel this same pain. Not after he let her go. So he said no. "Sorry, no." He cleared his throat. "Excuse me."
And he turned to walk away from the woman he loved, another time, knowing his steps couldn't be heavier if his feet were made of solid gold.
But she caught him by the wrist, turned him to face her. She looked at his eyes. Then her gaze flickered to his jacket, and with a trembling hand, she reached into his pocket, and pulled out his sonic screwdriver. She pressed the button, and the screwdriver retracted, and though it looked different, she knew. She knew.
The sonic fell out of her grasp, made clumsy by the emotions in her heart and the shaking of her body. "It's you," she said. Two tears made their way down her cheeks, and she closed her eyes.
"It's me," he replied softly. He wiped the tears from her cheeks with a swipe of his thumb. Then he took her hand in his and put it to his cheek. "Rose Tyler-"
"Rose?" He was cut off by a familiar voice, one he couldn't quite place. He dropped Rose's hand and looked.
Then both his hearts fell.
It was him. It was John Smith. It was the duplicate of the tenth version of himself, the one he'd left with Rose.
And all at once he was reminded that he had let her go. He had broken her heart nearly as much as he'd broken his own. No matter how badly he wanted to kiss her and love her like he used to, he couldn't. Because Rose Tyler wasn't his anymore. Rose Tyler belonged to someone else, and that someone was him.
And that, perhaps, was the worst thing of all.