a quick hug that reeked of comfortable friendship and eyes that seemed to view her as a child

She sat in her room, slouched on her bed. She knew she wasn't good enough. When had that ever not been true? Ever since the Estates, she'd ached to be viewed as smart and worthy. But Madame de Pompadour just helped her to realize that her facade of cleverness and pride was just that: a facade. She could never reach that level of sophistication and gentle grace. And it killed her.

words meant to comfort spoken with dull eyes and drooped shoulders

How could she have thought herself to be special, even for a moment? She'd escaped her boring world and, in that temporary happiness, tricked herself into thinking she was just as good as every other person, maybe even slightly better. A hero. Someone worthy of the Doctor's love and affection. But that had been proven terribly wrong and even though she was constantly reminded of her un-achieved A-levels, she'd never felt more stupid.

a silence colder than any wind they'd ever experienced and eyes shifting to avoid each other

How could she have been so naive? She hadn't failed to notice that this woman was the exact opposite of herself. She stepped back in danger, while Rose fought back. She had a natural beauty that made men come flocking, even the king for heaven's sake, and Rose had too much mascara to hide her insecurities. She was everything the Doctor obviously wanted, and Rose...

lips bit into so hard that blood was drawn to keep from crying out despairs over heartbreaking realizations

Reality was a tough and silent killer, and Rose was definitely an unsuspecting victim. Yet she couldn't even feel sorry for herself because her best friend, the love of her mediocre existence, was in some other room wallowing in pain over someone, also. And Rose knew that if he felt even one tenth for Madame de Pompadour the way Rose felt for him, he was probably in unimaginable agony.

fingers clasped tightly together, trying and failing to imitate the hand of another's

She realized that she was in mourning for what she'd thought they'd had. She'd thought they were so much more. And she'd been mistaken. But no longer could she go back to how they were, knowing to him it meant nothing more than friendly affection. How could she have read so much into something that he obviously dealt out like business cards? Touching had never been overly special for him, just as she had never been to him, either.

quiet but heart-wrenching sobs muffled into a pillow; mascara-drenched cheeks and cold, empty hands

Where had it all gone wrong?