A/N: I was tired and feeling sad, I think that explains the gist of this.
Disclaimer: Nope. The BBC is not mine, nor is Doctor Who, but I can wish.
Memories
The memories are what pains him the most. Yet they are also what comforts him the most. They are the last memories of Rose. Of the pink and yellow flower he lost. The Rose he loved but wouldn't ever admit to. That was what tore at him the most: that she didn't know how the sentence would end.
Oh, and the cold, empty, sorrow filled memories that were so full of life and joy and danger and Rose. The faded images of grinning faces, hugs, and a kiss or two, gathering dust in a room full of his past. Along with memories of the others: Sarah Jane, Ace, Adric, Tegan, Neesa, Turlough, Barbara, Ian, Susan, Jo, Romana, and so many others. All full of smiles. All full of danger.
It made him want to scream. It made him want to cry and hide and see her again, find her, save, her, anything to get her back. But he couldn't. He was stuck with the bright, bold, "NO" beaming and blazing in his head, "NO, you can't. You CAN'T get her back. It's OVER." And then he would want to cry all over again and he would find himself in her room, cuddling her clothes to his chest as he rocked himself to sleep in her bed. Then he would dream of her, and of all of them, but especially his pink and yellow Rose. Dream of her laugh, her smile, the odd adventure where nothing dangerous happened. Then the tendrils of sleep would release him from their grasp and he would write to her. Write in anger, write in sorrow, write in love. He saved the letters, tucking them under her pillow in case she ever came back to him.
"No, preposterous. She can't." Those blinding words blared at him, "None of them can." But he didn't care. He had hope and that was all he needed: she might come back.