Fitz has his guitar and the Doctor has hishobbies, but Anji, she has her writing. Long ago, as a child, she had a lovely little journal. Between the ages of 12 and 15 she had filled it continuously, dailywith everything that happened to her. All of her crushes, all of her dreams, her fears, her wishes and even her plans. If a young teenager could make plans. She glances up at the moving Time Rotor, hears the Doctor mutter something about nexus digressions and then she looks back down at the pad in her lap.
Yes, she had had a journal once; it was a long time ago. And she had filled it from cover to cover. And then one day she woke up, her O levels staring her in the face and found that the journal held no allure for her any more. She had stored it away under her maths and her science books, stored at the bottom of the cupboard until she had forgotten it existed.
She sighs and rubs at the back of her neck. Writing always gives her a crick in the muscle. Anji rolls her shoulders and grips the pencil tighter. Maybe it was remembering her childhood and the way she would run home to write what she had seen most days, who she talked to, the way the person dressed, the way the person spoke that made her want to write again. After all, her days are like they had been in her youth only the people she talks to are not people at all and her friends are not human, well
Anji looks up again and smiles in the direction of Fitz. He is standing off to the side like he usually does, a brooding, quiet, poet-turned-traveler, lost to everyone including himself. She watches him, in the dark, as he stands in the dark, his eyes intent on the Doctor. She sees caring, she sees protectiveness, but she sees aloofness there too. With a sigh, she begins to write again. Fitz is human, but sometimes she wonders. In her home, in her time, on her Earth, she would have never had time or the energy for someone like him, but here she found he was a firm part of her life. Maybe not as firm as David had been, but firm nonetheless.
Her sigh is loud, she supposes and she glances down at the words she has written. The writing is broad, open, showing her personality in every angle, every sweep of the ink on the page. She supposes she should have something to take with her when she leaves. To remember them by, that is. If she ever got home, that is.
She begins to write again, the pen flowing across the page. If she never gets home, at least she has something to keep her sane. The guitar and the muttering aren't enough any more it seems.
She sighs and writes her dreams, her plans, her hopes and fears. She writes until half the small volume is gone and still the words pour out of her hand, through the medium shaped as a pen, spewed and spelled upon the page in free-hand script. She wants to have something to remember this time by, but wants to have something to take her mind off it all.
The Doctor has his hobbies and his mutterings; Fitz has his angst and his guitar; Anji has her journal, her sanity and her growing shrine to Calliope.