Inspired by www dot youtube dot com/watch?v=ONOG2yH0TdM

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. If I did, the Daleks would actually be dead for real this time.

Stargazing is your new hobby.

It's all of our hobbies now. That's all we do. You look out your window into the inky blue night, naming each and every star because you know them all by heart. Every time the news reports something new about space you scoff because you already knew something like that existed.

You actually like your history classes now, something that you still don't quite understand. Your teachers don't understand your obsession with random historical figures like Madame de Pompadour. You spend your time reading biographies, trying to pick out the tidbits that were surely the Doctor's doing.

You spend hours on the internet, reading theories and coming up with ideas of your own. You write and plot and discover, content to spend your days talking about aliens and time machines. You doodle on every sheet of paper you can find, making sure that every quote is perfectly memorized and every TARDIS is accurate down to the window panes. You've become obsessed with bananas, leather jackets, over-gelled hair, pinstripe suits, bow ties, mops and red fezzes, sometimes to the point where you wear them to school and get yelled at when said mop hits someone in the head.

Your friends think you're mental. That's okay though; they don't understand. The ones that do are your greatest assets. They're an outlet for your rantings and ravings, people that share in your adoration and obsession. You all sit around quoting and laughing, calling each other by your chosen Time Lord names. Everyone else thinks you're mental anyway, especially your parents.

More than anything, you spend your days staring. You stare out the window at the nearest street corner, commenting to yourself that it's the perfect place for a blue phone box to appear. Sometimes, you even expect it to. Always, you wish it would.

You sit around and wonder which one you'll see first. Maybe it will be the one with the scarf or the one with the celery. Perhaps it will be the one with the recorder or the one with the red fez. If you're lucky, it will be the one with the big ears or the one with the spiky hair. He will grab your hand and say "Run!" and everything will change. You will fly away in a big, blue box, never again a slave to school and work and television and sleep.

Because all we want is to be taken away. If there is even the smallest chance that there is more to life than TV dinners and rap music, we will take it. Death doesn't matter. You would chance it if it meant a life in the TARDIS.

And you know he's real. Oh, he's so real. He has to be. The universe is a vast, sprawling thing full of planets and stars and aliens. Somewhere out there is a man in a blue box, a box that can travel anywhere and anywhen. And you don't blink when you stare at that street corner. It might disappear if you do.

But it never appears. So you wait. And you dream. You dream of the day that the Doctor comes to sweep you away into the stars... because the sky is the only place you belong now.