It is a warm day, not a cloud in the sky. A Saturday. Saturdays are always good. Big temporal tipping points he used to say, where anything could happen. Not like Tuesdays or Thursday afternoons. We always landed on Saturdays. But now, we take the long way around. And even though we're still together, I can't help thinking that my life used to be better with him. The Doctor. That funny old man that stole a box, and never stops running. He can't stop running. After he lost us, he still kept going. Because I think, if he ever stopped for just a moment, his guilt would kill him. He has lost so much and so many. That lonely man. My raggedy Doctor.
Rory and I live in a little apartment, just outside Manhattan. It's 1947, which is still weird to me. The first few weeks that we were here, I pretended that it was just a dream. That the Doctor would come to get us. That he would reboot the universe again and come back. But once we adopted Anthony, everything fell into place. I had Rory, and we had our son. And honestly, I couldn't be happier.
Sometimes I think I see it. That box. Old and new, borrowed, and the bluest blue. Then I look closer; and then I open the box. But there's no man in that box. There is no journey for me in that box. Not anymore. As small on the inside, as it is on the outside. We have moved on. I just wish I could say the same for the Doctor.
I told him not to be alone; I told him to keep going, to forget. The Doctor can't be alone. He acts like he's fine, but I know that his hearts are breaking. That man, that
daft old man, has survived so much. He has fought and he has died, but none of that scares him. There's only one thing that can hurt him. And it isn't a gun or a sword,
or a massive alien incursion,or even words. It's loss.
