Every morning he's there, pressing buttons and pulling levers, waiting to swirl you away in his big blue box, ready to explore every universe. The bliss of those times still hangs on you like a huge lantern among the shadows that now populate your life. You cling on to those memories like they're your anchor in an endless sea. You remember him whizzing you away to explore the galaxies, and you miss it. You miss it like hell.

You miss the stars shining brighter when he laughs, your sorrows growing lighter when he smiles. You miss your heart thumping loudly in in your chest, a million beats per minute, every time he says your name. You miss the bits and bobs and crazy trinkets that litter the TARDIS, and you miss his happy, excited face as he pulls and pushes them, the Doctor in the strange blue box, ready to save the universe.

You miss it so much you want to curl up in a ball and cry forever, until the world stops and your tears flow upwards. You miss it so much you want to burn your heart out, just to stop the unbearable pain. You miss it so much that you keep living, because you know that's what he'd want. You miss it so very, very much that you pretend you don't cry yourself to sleep every night, you keep it together. You're the only one who doesn't believe your cover story, yet you're the one who needs it most.

He's ruined you, that Doctor has, ruined you beyond repair. He's the reason you look up at the stars every night and weep. They remind you of him so much, the stars do. They light up just like his eyes as he talks about timey wimey stuff. The sky reminds you of him too. It's as huge as his mind and heart and knowledge. The grass reminds you of the time, so long ago, when you heard the sound of the universe as he landed in your garden.

You're a lost cause, really. You have been ever since the first time you met the queer Doctor with no proper name, who travels in the mysterious blue box. You'll never forget him and you don't want to, so why are you trying so hard?