If none of it had ever happened, he thinks he might make good on some things he had in mind. It's a lonely thought, and he doesn't have the time anymore to pursue it, because soon he won't be her Spaceman anymore and maybe won't love her anymore, not with the real dual regret and joy he does now, but with something softer, like a quietly amused, tolerant remembrance of a silly childhood notion.

He doesn't feel childish, yet at the same time he does, and very old as well. He thought he had so much time - he'd seen three companions come and go, and countless deaths and now two marriages. And he watches sadly as she laughs with delight, clad in white and tulle and wearing a star on her finger. There are stars in her eyes, too, and stars in her mind, but she doesn't know. Those stars are blotted out, no longer reflected when she looks in the mirror, just letters backwards spelling nonsense.

Thinking isn't good for him. He could get lost in all the many solitary thoughts that teem through his head. His life had so many what ifs, so many missed opportunities, so many alternate universe spun out from around him like a widening web, that standing still just one moment could send him off on a wild goose chase of a happy ending. For himself, selfishly, for once, instead of carrying on, seeking happiness elsewhere that likewise faded away with the passing of time or life.

The possibilities were numerous as the very stars, even when confined only to and around her, the last he held in his heart, the last to tear it asunder with something so guileless as happiness. That she was happy, and did not know, made him ache. That she was happy was his only design, and his only lasting happiness too. To be selfish, to pursue a doubtful whim less solid and assured, would be dangerous for them both. Better to leave things as they were, and the two of them would together enter new lives and new joys, each unaware of the other.

Just one more lonely thought before he turned away. Of making good on things he had in mind - she never got to see that beach he promised her. Now he would not be the one to take her, but it didn't matter. The idea of leaving something undone that could have been accomplished those last few moments plagued him. The money and tickets were procured, hidden away for them to find or be given, one last brilliant destination for Donna by his doing. Perhaps it was not time and space, but he knew she would like to travel.

So onwards he went from there, faces lingering in his mind, an eager 'allons-y' unuttered, left for someone else's taking, because he did not want to go.