denial - clara

If she told herself enough times that she was fine, she started to believe it. Because, some days, the weight on her unbeating heart didn't feel as heavy, and the countdown on her neck didn't feel like a countdown to Gallifrey like it did most days. She could almost pretend that she was just another girl falling in love with every other man and woman she meets in time in space, convincing herself that she saw a wrinkle in the mirror, or felt a flicker of a heartbeat.

And then she caught herself one day, not breathing. The Doctor had told her it was habit, now, since she was technically dead. About to die. Frozen. Forgotten. But sometimes, she felt irrevocably mortal. Scared in the line of fire, grabbing Ashildr's hand when she thought they were both going to die, because the more she pushed it away, the more she denied it, the more she could pretend this was all some elaborate adventure. Maybe she had a dream crab on. Because the reality was, she was never going to see the Doctor again. She was never going to. And she was still finding ways to cope with that. She knew she was still in the denial stage, she knew she hadn't felt it fully. So she lingered in the stage as long as she could, as long as possible. What else could she do?