Contrary to the common belief, a certain Rose Marion Tyler was not in an alternate universe, living a 'fantastic' life as the one she had promised to live day to day. She was not waking up, getting ready, going to work, coming home, watching telly while eating beans on toast, and then going to bed. She wasn't moving on and dating Alec Saunders, the bloke who fancied her from archiving. She wasn't with her mother Jackie Tyler, or her sort-of-and-not-father Pete Tyler, or her bouncing baby brother Tony Tyler. And she certainty was not fantasizing about a certain fantastic alien that had thieved her heart and shattered it in one deft blow in the timespan of two years; a brilliant bloke filled with enough ego to pop the universe away from her he was occupying.
From her.
She didn't have to fantasize. She didn't have to dream or cry out in the plaguing nightmares of his taunting face that was a twisted lie of doubt, always nagging. The worst day of her life morphing into absolute horror as he mocked her and left her sobbing.
She didn't have to dream or scream any longer. She didn't have to cry or wail for a man she longed for a universe away.
Because she was in his arms right now, wrapped up in pinstripe clad embrace, being held so tightly she thought she might choke.
And not from proximity. There seemed to be a slight problem with the fact that everything behind her was melting away, her whole world.
The universe was falling apart.