Her fingers clasped around the glass. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, and bloodshot. With her other hand, she absentmindedly drew patterns on the condensation. She pulled her jacket around herself more securely.
A group of men laughed raucously.
The pull in her heart did not cease.
She was on the verge of praying to a god she knew didn't exist, praying for a miracle. Praying for him. Praying for each hug and moment of hands being held and the few brief, brushed kisses they'd shared. She wore a leather jacket now. She called it her battle armor. It was that, true, but more of a memento. When she had to dress formally, she wore a trench coat.
She was silent as a man sat beside her.
She did not look up.
Her fingers combed idly through her once well cared for blonde hair, only pausing to take a sip of liquor. The burning liquid settled warmly in her stomach. She felt giddy—buzzed. She took another sip and another, allowing memories to swaddle her like warm blankets. Love, she decided, was a blessing and a curse. Her savior and her demise. She finished her drink. She looked up.
The man beside her was battle-worn and tired-looking.
It was him.
She glanced away as her heart lurched and her emotional pain pierced through her stomach. Eyes downcast, she pushed away from the bar. She lurched unsteadily towards the door, casting one last glance back towards the leather-clad man at the bar. He looked towards the door at the same time, and their eyes met, blue clashing brown. His were questioning, hers were withdrawn. She turned and left.
Rose faded from the world, her form dissolving into particles that chased each other across the Void.
When the Doctor left the bar, he had forgotten her.