There are things sadder
than you and I. Some people
do not even touch.
The space between them feels like miles, feels like it's shouting at him, and he tries desperately to ignore it. The scent of her namesake lingers in the air as the cool breeze lifts the ends of her hair from her shoulders. He sniffs at it a bit, rubbing his first and middle fingers over his eye to cover it up. After walking in silence a tad longer, he gives in, unable to restrain himself any longer, and reaches a pin stripe clad arm in her direction, the palm of his hand facing forward, fingers splayed and inviting. He can't help the smile that takes over his face, the crinkles that appear beside his eyes, as she interlocks her fingers with his and beams up at him.
He knows not to say what's on his mind, on the tip of his tongue. I love you. I wish I could grow old so I could do it with you. Don't ever leave. but he also knows it could be worse. The thought sends a chill up his spine and she must notice because he gives his hand a reassuring squeeze as if she could read his mind, as if she were saying Don't worry, I'll always be right here, by your side.
Sometimes I miss you
the way someone drowning
remembers the air
He peers across the console at a smile that lights up a room on the occasions that it does make an appearance, but still he feels that hole left behind. Where there should be blonde, there is ginger, and the soft, soothing voice he'd grown so accustomed to, was so very comforted by, has been replaced by shouting. The laughter and adventure remain, but something is missing. While the love is still very much present, it's quite different this time.
Donna is brilliant, in her own way, but he can't help that when he sees the way she curls her knees to her chest on the jump seat his brain screams Rose. Sometimes she uses both hands to grip her teacup as if trying to keep her fingers warm and she'll run her thumb along the rim while speaking, and it's so very Rose. Once while in a playful mood, he makes a lame joke, causing her to quip back with an affected accent "I am not amused" and he nearly cries out from the pang it sends through him. Rose, Rose, Rose.
We were together. I forget the rest.
He sits on the edge of her bed, the sweater she'd been wearing the day before crumpled up beside him, and looks at the cork board she'd put on the wall. Photographs of her smiling brightly accompanied by him covered it, a leather jacket and big ears, pin stripes and unruly hair, but always that look in her eyes, that little glimmer that says we're so in love even if it never came out of their mouths.
He lets out a small sigh as he adjusts his bow tie and stands, the sweater now in his hand. He racks his brain, but can't quite remember exactly what they did or what was said the day she'd worn it, but the important bits are still there - where they were, that they were together, that they were happy. In the end, that's all that really matters.