He wrote letters to her, letters he let no one else see. He kept them in a cheap leather-bound journal he'd bought down the street from the old Torchwood building and hid it underneath the console of the TARDIS.
Rose, he wrote, I wonder if we've gotten pregnant yet. We'll probably name him something silly and sentimental like Jonathan. John Smith, Jr. Maybe if we have another we can name him Pete. That'd be nice, a little Peter. Unless we've a girl, then maybe we'll name her Sarah Jane. Or Donna. Although I don't think you'd like to name any of our girls Donna, so maybe we just ought to get a cat.
Rose, he wrote, I miss you very much today. I hope you're taking good care of me. I wonder sometimes if it rains where you are and that is why I feel so sad. Are Johnny and Martha and little Pete doing well? I hope they're getting along with their cousin Tony. I know Jackie spoils the whole lot of them terribly, but you shouldn't let it bother you. She's just happy to have children around now that she can afford them.
Rose, he wrote, I've met so many new people now without you. Is it bad of me to love them, too? The universe isn't any less beautiful without you by my side but I like to think that's because you're still in it somewhere. It makes me glad to think you're happy, even if sometimes I'm not. You are happy, aren't you? Oh, Rose, all I have left now is hoping you're happy. And Rose Tyler, never forget that I
There the journal ends.