Every day, she gives him his five minutes.

It can be any time of the day, really. Any time when she's not teaching or chasing aliens or sipping tea or whatever else she gets up to during a day.

She always makes sure to have five proper minutes to herself, with no distraction, for him.

Just as he requested.

Some days are easier. The sun will rush through the sky and suddenly it's completely dark outside, and she almost has to scramble to get her time in before midnight. Those are the days she almost forgets.

Then, there are the other days.

It usually happens during an awful, lonely, boring, cloudy day, and suddenly her mind just floods with thoughts and memories of him.

Those days, she finds it excruciating to only spend five minutes dwelling on her grief.

But she does it.

There's one time when she's sitting in the time machine when a wave suddenly hits her, so strong it almost knocks her from her seat.

She cries, really properly cries, great gasping sobs that she's always hated having the ability to create.

The Doctor, her tough, no physical contact Doctor, wraps his arms around her and lets her cry into his shoulder.

He knows about the five minutes, and, as silly as he may think it, he's never said so to her.

Once the time has passed, he murmurs that the minutes are up, and she somehow is able to compose herself and control the hysterics.

The afternoon following, they go on one of her favorite trips she can remember.

Another time, or many times, it's happened at the school. Triggers are everywhere, little reminders of him wherever she turns.

Her desk, where he used to leave little notes every morning before she started her classes.

The halls, where they would often walk together and giggle like students hiding a badly-kept secret.

Even the gardens, where she eavesdropped on his and the Doctor's first full conversation.

When it happens at the school, she excuses herself, goes into the staff bathroom and sets her phone timer for exactly five minutes.

When the alarm goes off, she goes back to class.

It's getting easier, she's been noticing. She's not having full scale hysterical fits anymore, and even being at the school hardly acts as an allergen.

There are plenty more of the days of fast sunlight and quick five minutes.

There's a part of her that's always saying that one day, she'll forget completely, and the action will fade from her daily routine.

Maybe that's what mourning's supposed to be for. To forgive and forget and move on, continue life the way it was.

She never wants that, always fights against that piece of her conscience.

Because as long as she lives, Clara Oswald will save five minutes a day for Danny Pink.