Being him is incredible. I never realised how infinitesimally small the human brain is. It's like a fish tank compared to this ocean. And the Tardis, it's so beautiful! For so long I'd though it just a machine, like a car only a little fancier. Not as cool as a spaceship, I'd though, not by a long shot. It wasn't the Enterprise, or whatever that ship on Star Wars (with Spock and Yoda) was called.

I'm him, and I'm me, and he was never bragging when he said he was clever. Time Lord consciousness is different, everything is fixed points and flux points and wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey-spacey-wacey stuff. Beautiful, bizarre, and it's spilling out of my mouth without my noticing, knowledge beyond the human brain, ingenuity beyond 96% of the universe, and it's just noise to him, the same as turning on music to help you think.

I'm him and it burns. It's burning me up, burning me out, and I can see him watching me and I know but I don't know because it can't happen. He can't leave. We're the Doctor and Donna, friends, in the Tardis, being so much more than I was ever supposed to be. I can't go back to my mind and my friends and my boring old life. It's like tasting the greatest delicacy in the universe and living the rest of your life on bread and water.

Let me burn, I want to tell him, but my eyes are full of tears and I'm babbling objections, telling him no, telling him we were meant to be forever and I can't go back, "Please don't make me go back!"

And then he erases the only world I ever wanted to live in. He deletes his face and he deletes the Ood, Pompeii, and Agatha Christie. He deletes us; he deletes Donna Noble, the most important person in the universe.

And I just forget.

…

Sometimes I dream about a man, and a blue box, and spinning by the stars. I dream about his smile and this strange look in his eyes as I watch him through a haze of words I couldn't spell now if I had a year and the internet. I dream he's deleting me, spindly fingers pressed on either side of my head.

I dream of something more than this.

They're mad things, these dreams, full of wedding dresses and jumping out of cars and spider women drowning in the dark. I dream about these mad creatures holding their mind inside their hands and singing a melody I find myself humming inadequately as the electric whisk grinds against the side of the bowl, spraying bits of sodding mixture over the walls. There are giant wasps, and I'm standing on a hill watching Pompeii burn. There are one hundred other insane, wonderful things. The things we did, us, some crazy man and I.

When I close my eyes sometimes I see a curly-haired woman, smiling like she's knows a thousand things we don't, a thousand things we've yet to see, but there's tragedy in her gaze too. She flashes in my mind when I'm not thinking of not thinking. I've drawn her, dressed as an astronaut, smiling like she's breaking. I know how that feels, but I don't know why. I'm a temp, I'm normal; I've never done anything exciting in my life.

I wake sometimes and scrabble for a light, somehow afraid that it will consume me, and when the shadows retreat across the floorboards I remember two children and a man and a diet. I'm afraid of the dark. Isn't that strange? I wasn't before, but one morning I woke up and there it was, this deep implanted fear.

And I drive my husband up the wall with this word I keep saying. I can't help myself. It just slips out, when I'm watching telly or shopping – binary.

Binary.

Binary.

Binary.

At the strangest times, that word, that man, a blue box, and this odd sense that I was meant for so much more.

I got sad about Donna at midnight and this is what happened. Leave me a review if you liked it, and merry 8th of Christmas!