The Mistress could never explain how much he meant ot her, never put it into words the time that she wanted to share with him and say it in a way that he understood or lead him to say anything more than 'I'm glad that I can share the stars wit you- we'll travel them someday, right? Together.'
And she would say yes every time, wanting it more than anything, unsure if he meant it in the way she wanted but knowing that she'd be happy anyway.
But they grew and changed, long hair, short hair, short, tall, eye colour, weight, organs, gaits, mannerisms, friends and finally worlds.
She knew that he hadn't forgotten when he was a little girl and promised them the whole universe and his hand to hold through it (it'd felt like a promise to her anyway). It meant something different to him now, with his family and his wanderlust and his boredom, more escapism than wonder.
She'd never been able to keep up with his travels, mired in the language of the courtroom, busy in upholding gallifreyan values, superiority and disdain.
She could have despised him for it but that feeling came a lot later, thousands of years after she'd been declared his enemy, when he once again wanted her to be his friend.
She'd learned a handful of the languages of Earth over a month to impress him when she was younger and not a woman, a child in human terms even.
Spoken with her tongue now they feel more at home than the festering purity of Gallifreyan, grounded in the present and the now rather than in an ever-tightening death grip on the future.
The words are uncomplicated and adaptable, unfettered by rules and regulations and reflective of a society which, although more primitive, is not without its charming lawlessness.
She'd learned out from there, Martian, Saturnian, Plutonion (a dare- there were so few settlers to that ball of icy dust that it never developed far, more a shriveled dialect than true words), Raxicoricofallopatorian, Silurian, Universal Constant C (for people with single mouths), so many different sign languages that she finds it difficult to go out and not get caught by what people are talking about when they're doing nothing at all.
She reads some Korrish, for the poetry, and just a little of the ancient script from a planet which was locked away in time before it could be analysed by archaeologists (sometimes people with power have a vested interest in denying things and sometimes new technology backfires in surprising ways- either way even she's not managed to find a way back there)
Even now, with these words she's spoken for centuries she cannot find the place where the words like for him- the ones which will make him realise what he means to her and what she wants to mean to him. She doesn't write much anymore, doesn't often have the means to, but even in those words she can write there is a lack of something for him, like all communications between them are twisted and warped, stripped of purpose and context before they enter his head.
And now she's stuck in a box which she asked to be put in, thinking of him, the bastard who never understands even as she sits here, perfectly capable of leaving if she didn't want to stay, that he isn't listening and that he never has.
She just wishes that he would realise for one moment, only a second, that he hasn't been listening for years.
The Doctor is wrapped up in his head, unable to hear her, and despite all the languages that he knows too he'll never realise that he hasn't heard what she's been saying the whole time. She'd give so much for him to understand or recognise any of her feelings for him at all.