She missed him.
God, she missed him so much. She longed for him: she longed to see him, longed to be with him, longed to hold him. She missed him every second of every day, and those feelings burned with a fire so hot no one could ever quench it.
Apart from him.
She dreamed of him every night - she would be standing in the middle of a deserted street, or in a town heaving with people, or simply curled up in her own bed. She could have been anywhere, it wouldn't have mattered. But then, from round the corner, or emerging from the crowd, or from behind the doorframe, a face would appear. His face. The only face she would ever look for. His dark, floppy hair would curl down his forehead, and his eyes would be crinkling, as he smiled, as he smiled broadly at her. He looked at her as if she was the only oasis in a scorching desert; as if he had been blind and she was the first thing he had ever seen.
It had been six months since she'd seen him last. Six months, one hundred and eighty-two days, four thousand three hundred and eighty three hours, two hundred and sixty-two thousand nine hundred and seventy-four minutes, fifteen million, seven hundred and seventy-eight thousand, four hundred and sixty-three seconds. And she'd missed him for every single one.
He had just left without warning. One day he was there with her, running across galaxies, saving the stars, and the next he had gone. She didn't know why. But she waited - she had waited all day and all night for him, not daring to fall asleep in case he came for her. She was still waiting. She didn't know whether he was alive or whether he was dead, and there was nothing she could do. It was tearing her apart; it was taking control of her entire life and smashing it to tiny pieces she could only put together with him. She wanted to hate him, she wanted to forget all about him and hate him for leaving her this way, but she knew just how impossible this was. She was his impossible girl, and he was impossible to forget.
One cold night, she lay with drooping eyelids amidst her soft white sheets, every muscle in her body aching with loneliness and desire, when she was wrenched from her near slumber by the sound of her dreams. She heard the sound that accompanies hope, and freedom, and love. The most beautiful groaning, wheezing sound filled the room, and, right in front of her wide, tired eyes, a bright blue box materialised.
She did not know time between which she saw it and when the old door creaked slowly open. It could have been a second, or ten, or ten thousand. She simply sat there, frozen, in a state absolute shock and disbelief, and a surge of inconceivable joy leaped through her. Could it be, at last, he was really, truly here?
The door was now fully open, and he was there. He was really there. He stood, backlight by the warm heart of his magnificent ship, with the most pitiful expression plastered on his face. He had seen her, and he looked at her like she was the only oasis in a scorching desert, and he looked at her as if he was a man once blinded and now he was seeing the sun, and he looked into her tearful eyes and he could not bear it any longer. He ran across the room to where she was sat, with her hands reaching towards him and her heart beating, whole again, in her chest, and he threw his arms around her and drew her close to him. She broke down in tears, and he held her ever tighter as she sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Clara," he whispered in her ear, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he spoke her name for the first time in what felt like forever. "Oh, my Clara. I will never let you go again."
And with this, tears began leaking down his own cheeks, for he knew now, he knew now better than ever before, the truth of this statement. He never could let her go.