I'm running.
I always do but this time... This time urgency is a million Daleks hot on my tail chanting that old, exhausted phrase.
I need to escape, hide, scream into the darkest recesses of every hidden corner within my oldest friend. As if on queue, she flings her doors open and I find myself wandering.
I've put twelve holes in various places before my knees buckle and I'm cursing the entirety of the universe at the top of my lungs. My hands bleed, matting my hair in red as I tear through it. Universe be damned, this is not how her story ends. With all the near-misses in her story, this is not how she gets to go.
No. This can't be happening.
I stand on shaky legs and wander, begging my Old Girl to find a place for me to hide, but as she always manages, she found the place I needed. It's a brown wooden door, nondescript, and very neglected. I've avoided this exact spot for too long, and I feel her press me to open the door. Slowly, mechanically, I reach for the handle and turn.
I am inundated by stale perfume and warmth, a comfort I'd not felt since she left.
Since I sent her away.
Since I became the horse's arse that couldn't tell her the truth.
Since I abandoned her.
Her pillows are still bunched in a corner, clothes erupting from luggage on the floor. Her pink jumper carelessly dangling off the arm of a chair and teasing me. I am on autopilot, letting my fingers trace the foot of the bed, reaching for the nearest fluff of downy softness, wrapping it in my arms. I sigh, defeated, letting it drop to the floor. In my peripheral vision, I see a box I never noticed before resting atop a stack of old gossip magazines. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm holding it between my hands. The lid is... I don't know where...
Her face is smiling up at me.
Not me, the timeless man studying this photograph, but the man with an arm around her shoulders, all big ears and broody eyes. I remember... I was distracted. There was something odd about the elderly man who was selling balloons to children from a cart thirty yards away. He looked so familiar, the way he tapped the side of his nose. Couldn't place it. His movements were too human but, not. So wrapped up in my mind, I didn't realise Jack had snapped this picture on his mobile. She must have had it printed. It was the last trip to London before...
Before the version of myself in this image became the version of myself holding it.
It hits me in the face like Jackie's slap.
She loved me then.
I'm such a useless, blind old fool.
I manage the lid, turn and, with renewed determination, retrace my steps. Under one arm, that box is tucked away. Safe. I ignore my Old Girl tickling at the back of my mind. I approaching the exit, confident that I will simply knock upon their door, sling Rose Tyler over my shoulder and drag her, kicking if necessary, to the Med inside the TARDIS where my Old Girl will help me figure out how to fix her. I can do anything! I am a Time Lord! I am...
The box drops from the safety of my coat.
I am holding open the door, but in the cold early morning air, with crossed arms and eyes identical to mine, stands my duplicate. Older, greying, smile lines more prominent. Clothed, this time.
"I knew the air felt different. How did you get here?"