People say love is a wonderful thing. They say it keeps couples together for years, produces kids, makes loving and happy families. These people have obviously never had their hearts broken.
It surprised Rose sometimes, the pain one French blonde could do. She didn’t even know she was doing it, which somehow made it all the more worse.
In her head she’d tell herself it was just one night, one party. He’d never said they had shagged, but then, he’d also never said they hadn’t. To Rose, it didn’t really matter. He’d still left her, possibly forever, on a deserted spaceship whilst he got to live in a French palace with ‘her’.
He didn’t even seem to realise the pain he had caused her, the bouts of sadness and depression she felt whenever she thought he liked her and Reinette inevitably crept into her head. Whenever she plucked up the courage to ask him about her, which she rarely did, he wouldn’t quite answer her, scuttling around the subject like he was allergic. With each non-answer, she would feel the pain building up, until she couldn’t take it, and had to leave his presence.
There were times when the pain was bearable, when she could believe it was just him and her, time and space. These were the best days, the days when they would just be content to be, and they would save alien planets and make new friends. These were the days she loved the most.
Then there were the days when curiosity got the better of her, and she nosed through the books on Madame de Pompadour in the Library, yet with each praising and loving sentence, the anger began to burn.
Sometimes, the pain welled up inside her. It was then she had to go sit alone in her room, curled up in the duvet, crying freely. These were the times she wished her mum was here, to comfort her, to tell her he wasn’t worth it. Except he was, and she would never leave him, not willingly.
On the worst days, she would sit in the clean, sterilised medical bay, thinking how much simpler it would be to end it, to leave the strange world the Doctor brought with him. On these days, she wouldn’t cry, the freeing of tears far too pointless, when only action would suffice. But she never could bring herself to plunge in the needle; her mother’s voice always keeping her sane, connecting her to the world of the living.
There were the days when she would be jealous of every female she knew, when she’d become so paranoid she couldn’t leave the TARDIS for fear of inflicting curses on innocent women. She knew she was being a stupid, hormonal teenager, but she didn’t care, because the Doctor was hers and she would never give him away.
Of course, there were the days when sanity took over, when she accepted that the Doctor had lost too; that he had lost someone who cared about him, maybe even understood him. These were the days when she would do whatever he asked, when she wouldn’t argue and would give him freedom. He looked at her funny, she noticed, on these days, would tell her to stay still and keep drinking. She felt guilty then, hoping she wasn’t that horrible and nasty. But then the sun would set, and by sunrise, another feeling took control.
She knew what her problem was. She knew she was jealous of another woman being closer to the man she loved than she was, and she knew that wasn’t Reinette’s fault, but she needed someone to blame, and she couldn’t blame him. But she knew the cure as well, knew that only one thing would make her better, would bring her out of her self-pity and pain. And when he would lean his head against hers, would take her hands in his, and cover her lips with his, she knew she’d be OK. All that it took was time.