They say that every year, he would dine alone.
He would go by the Earth calendar; make his companions, when there were any, go out for the night. See their families. Have fun.
Every year, he would buy her a card. Nothing expensive, nothing extravagant. Just a nice card. He would write it, sign his love, and place it in her old room. On her pillow. Over the years, the room would become fuller and fuller.
When he saw her again, when she ran through the street towards him, he had thought that maybe, maybe, she would finally be able to receive them. But she had to go back. He knew that. They knew that.
But that didn't stop him wishing.
There had been others, and there would be others in the future. But none of them could ever compare to her.
Rose.
His Rose.
Every year, every Valentine's Day, wherever he went, he would see her. He saw her smile on the face of a girl in Hyde Park. He saw another with her eyes crying in an Atraxan refugee camp. He sat beside a girl with exactly her hair on a shuttle to Calufrax Minor.
He found her lipstick in a shop in Hull.
He found her favourite chocolates in a supermarket, and bought them, even though he hated them.
He smelt her perfume, heard her laugh, felt the ghost of her touch.
He covered his world with her flowers, each one a memory. A kiss, a look, a thought.
A moment.
Everything was Rose.
And Rose was everything, everything, to him.
Rose and the Doctor.
The Doctor and Rose.
Without her, he felt that he was nothing.
So every year, he would throw everyone out of the TARDIS, and set the table for one. But while he had his memories, he never dined alone.