"You know what I've just realized?" Clara said from her spot on the couch.
"Hmm?" John handed her a cup of tea and resumed his position beside her. He draped his arm over the back of the couch so that he was almost touching her, but not quite.
"I know very little about you," Clara reflected. She turned her eyes away from the movie they were watching and looked at John instead.
"What? You know loads about me," John said.
"Okay, I know the trivial things. I know you work at a toy shop, I know you're twenty-eight years old, I know your favorite color is blue, I know you have a dreadful fashion sense—"
"Hey!"
"You're wearing a bowtie," Clara stated.
"Shut up, it's cool," John defended.
Clara raised her eyebrows at him. "I know you like to read, you went to University for a few years and then dropped out, you don't like pears, and you always put your jacket on right arm first," she finished.
"See? You know plenty about me," John said.
"I know random facts about you," Clara corrected, "But I have no clue where you grew up, or if you have a good relationship with your parents, or what you were like as a kid. There's more to a person than just random facts."
John suddenly felt uncomfortable. He had avoided talking about his past with Clara for a reason, because the last time he thought about it he unintentionally almost killed himself. It was just last Wednesday when he was having a breakdown in front of his brother's grave because he couldn't recall what he looked like. He'd been able to push the memory out of his mind for the last seven days because Clara's near death experience had been a phenomenal distraction, but now the unease was starting to surface once again. John had never been able to come up with an answer as to why he felt like he was reading his memories out of a textbook instead of actually remembering them, and that was troubling.
"John," Clara said.
"Hm?"
"I asked how your parents were," she said.
"Oh," John said. This was exactly the topic he did not want to talk about. He figured there was only one way to end the conversation quickly: tell Clara the truth. "They're dead," he said simply.
"Both of them?" She asked with the calmness only someone with a dead parent could achieve.
"Yes."
"How old were you?" She asked.
John thought for a second. It must have happened when he was very young but he couldn't recall his exact age. It was as if the author of his textbook memories forgot to include that detail. He decided they must have died before he started school, but if he told Clara that, she might ask who raised him in their stead, and that was a question John was unable to answer. In fact, nearly every single question about his past he was unable to answer, so he lied. "I was at University," he answered.
Then Clara did something unexpected; she stayed silent. She didn't say "I'm sorry" or "that must have been really hard for you." Her experience with deceased parents allowed her to understand that no amount of words could fix something like that. Clara's silence was meant to express that she empathized with him, and that she understood why he was getting so tense all of a sudden. Even though she was wrong about the reason for John's discomfort, he was incredibly grateful for her lack of response.
"Does that satisfy your craving for a back story?" John asked.
Clara took a sip of her tea, debating whether or not to push him any further. "Yes," she said finally, deciding to leave it for now, even though she was still curious. John's body language was sending her pretty clear signals that this was not a comfortable topic. Clara felt John relax beside her as they dropped the conversation so she tucked her legs underneath her and leaned into him as they watched the last twenty minutes of the film.
Over the next few days, Clara's curiosity about John's past tried to weave itself into their conversations, and each time it did, John's teeth grinded together a little harder. By the end of the week, his struggle to keep Clara out of his textbook memories transformed into good old-fashioned anger and annoyance. He wasn't mad at Clara, all she was doing was asking normal questions that any girlfriend would want to know the answer to (wait, girlfriend? John wasn't even sure what the two of them were). No, John was mad at himself. He was mad at himself because there was something fundamentally wrong with him. There had to be. Who else can't remember their childhood? All this built up anger and confusion was balancing on the edge of John's mind, and all it took was a small breeze to push it out into the open. This small breeze just happened to take the shape of a six word phrase uttered by one Clara Oswald.
It was Friday night and John and Clara were continuing their unplanned tradition of movie night. By now they had a routine: John shows up around seven, they spend thirty minutes arguing over what to watch (Clara usually wins), an hour into the movie John makes tea, the movie ends, and John gets back to his flat at about eleven. They've almost got it down to a science, but this time something was different. At the usual one hour mark, John got up from his usual spot on the couch to go make tea. When he finished, he walked out of the kitchen with a cup and each hand, walking slowly to make sure nothing spilled, and he looked up to see Clara looking at him with a fond smile.
"What?" He said defensively.
"Have I got something on my face?"
Clara laughed. "No, no," John handed her the cup, "It's just— I think I might love you," Clara said.
Six words. I. Think. I. Might. Love. You. What a small breeze it was.
"You don't mean that," John said almost instinctively. He was sitting just a bit farther away from her than he was before he got up. That was clearly not the answer Clara was hoping for.
"What's that supposed to mean?" She set her tea on the table in front of her without taking a sip. John realized his mistake too late.
"I mean, well, you said it yourself that you don't know me very well," he blurted, trying to cover his tracks.
"Only because you refuse to tell me anything about yourself. That's not my fault," Clara said.
"And you still think you love me?" John said a little harsher than he meant to, but this has been hurting for a week and it was about to boil over.
"Yes. I think I do. And it seems pretty obvious now that you don't feel the same way," Clara replied.
"Oh don't do that. This isn't about my feelings, it's about yours," John accused.
"What? You're mean I've somehow ruined this by saying I love you?"
"I mean you've said it without thinking about what it means," he said. Their words were getting more and more heated.
"Have you ever been in love before, John?" Clara asked.
I DON'T KNOW! AND I WILL NEVER KNOW, John wanted to shout. "What's that got to do with anything?" He snapped instead.
"I'm telling you that you don't need to know someone's entire life story to fall in love with them. Is there a problem with that?" Clara matched his tone.
"Yes!" John's voice was sharp and quick as a cracking whip.
"Well then please enlighten me because I seem to have missed something," Clara said hotly.
"You can't fall in love with a stranger, Clara!" his voice was on the verge of shouting.
"You're not making any sense! The last thing you are is a stranger—"
"No, you don't GET IT!" He launched himself up from the couch and screamed. He spun around and shouted at her and he felt horrible but he needed to get this out. "I'M BROKEN. You can't know me, Clara, and you never will, because I don't bloody know myself!"
This was wrong. This was all so, so wrong. But the worst part was he knew this might happen. All those weeks ago, Clara ran into him at the train station and he felt the strangest case of déjà vu, and he should have dismissed it as such. But he didn't. He didn't let her go because it was more than a gut feeling. When she looked up and apologized, John felt something for the first time in a long time. So, selfishly, he chased that feeling. He craved it. Being with Clara made him feel more human, and John was addicted. He knew, though, he knew that it wasn't a healthy relationship he was fostering, he just didn't know that Clara was equally as addicted, and it was only after she confessed her feelings that John knew he had made a mistake.
John couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't let Clara fall in love with someone like him, someone who would eventually let her down. He should never have found that café. He should never have asked her out on that first date. He should never have gotten involved with such a wonderful, amazing woman, because somewhere inside he knew he would eventually break her heart, because in the end, every machine malfunctions. And this time he wasn't sure if he would ever get fixed.
"John?" Clara asked.
"Stop," John said. "Just stop."
"What the hell is going on?" Clara asked. John started to walk away so Clara stood up after him. "What happened to you?"
"Just shut it! For God's sake, Clara, I can't do this!" John yelled.
"Stop walking, John!" Clara shouted even louder than John did and he stopped in his tracks out of pure surprise. Clara had never been so angry before. "Look at me," she demanded. John was fuming but he turned to face her, his back just inches from the door. "What's gotten into you? I tell you one little thing and next I know, you're broken and storming out. Is it such a terrible thing to be loved?" Her voice was just a notch below what it had been before.
"You don't understand," John struggled to explain.
"You're damn right I don't understand! Now I may not know you, John, but I know myself, I know that I want an answer for your insanity, and I know that I'm not going to let you leave until I get one." Clara snapped. She really, really cared about John, and she absolutely hated the fact that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't be able to help him this time.
"Well I regret to inform you that you seem to be at the wrong end of the hallway." John spun around, walked out of Clara's flat, and slammed the door behind him.