One thing was certain: he would never again be so open.
He had let out everything he had. Sure, he kept a pretty thick façade, but Amy and Rory knew the meaning behind every little flinch, unfinished sentence, or straightening of his bow tie. They knew exactly how deep his love for them was, and that the same depth would plunge into both of his hearts if they died. And they did.
The Ponds were dead and gone and he would never see them again. Never again see the reddest red of Amy's hair, the funny little twitch of Rory's eyebrows whenever he was confused, never hear their laughter, their voices, their sobs, their screams. And it hurt. He was 1200 now, and his head was so, so full, but it had never felt so empty. Numb, but full of pain. It was definitely a new concept.
Of course, he'd have more companions soon. They'd be brilliant, sweet, great people. But, fortunately for them (Amy would have said unfortunately), they wouldn't have to chance to really know him at all. His façade would have façades; laughter and big grins and hugging and running and joking. They may travel with him for years, but they would never know. The ache the Ponds left behind was enough of a burden, and he couldn't handle two.