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They travelled together in all of time and space, him and a girl named Clara - and yet he doesn’t know her at all.
Sometimes he stands at the TARDIS console trying to remember.
She was a girl - her name was Clara - she was his best friend. Four and a half billion years burning himself up again and again, just for a girl. His best friend. His Clara. He knows everything they did together, everyone they saved. He could tell anyone if they asked, what did you do together, you and her? But if they asked about the brilliant girl who followed him on all these adventures, he would have to say, i don’t know. And it would be odd but it would be true.
What was she like? She was definitely clever and quick, reversing the polarity of the neural block so she wouldn’t have to forget. Adventurous - why else would she have followed him through all of time and space? Resourceful - how else would she have survived till that day in Ashildr’s town? He groans in frustration. These tell him nothing at all about her.
What did she do when he wasn’t around? Humany-wumany things, he’d said. Had she a job? Gone to work? Bought groceries? Could she cook? What would a day like that have been like for her? What were the human problems that would’ve danced around her mind?
The way she looked when she looked out of the TARDIS, staring at all the universe spread in front of her. He has that memory of all his companions but her. Was she afraid? Amazed? Exhilarated?
Their first trip to another planet - to Akhaten. Unfortunate that a giant parasite had tried to kill them all. Still, how had she felt, with the adrenaline coursing through her blood, and uncontrolled thoughts racing through her mind? How had she hidden her fear away to blaze as brightly as she must have when she saved him?
He can't remember a single thing when he should know her inside and out, should know her like he knows the stars and the sky and the universe. The only thing he knows is that she was pretty. Pretty - like a delicate lily, like a worthless trinket. How could that word even begin to describe a girl like that?
These are the questions that keep him up at night.
She followed him to a Viking village, to the Orient Express, to the moon, to Gallifrey, to hell itself and back. She lied, and so did he. He doesn't know what about. They both thought they were keeping the other safe. One of the cruel ironies of the universe he knows all too well: you destroy yourself for someone, whittle yourself away for them to be safe, and just when you think they are, you lose them. This time he lost every facet of her, with not even a bit of her to keep and never forget. He might have thought of her her being by his side from time to time, might have smiled, thinking of her. It would be a wistful smile, maybe even a sad one, but it would be one nonetheless.
He would never have chosen this - this nothingness in his head and in his hearts.
Four and a half billion years and now not knowing what it was for. He wants to know if she was worth every second of that eternity. Whether she was as bright and beautiful and dazzling as he thinks she must have been. The only consolation he has is that she remembers every part of it as well as a human mind could. He hopes she remembers the good bits first - the bits where he was less capricious, less moody, less grumpy. The adrenaline-fueled laughter after each adventure. The rare hugs - did they ever hug? Maybe even a sunset on Kepler 16b, watching its two suns sink over the horizon. Does she ever lie under the same sky, thinking of him as he thinks of her? Does she ever wish it hadn't been him?
He plays Clara's song on his guitar and tries to trace her in the lilting notes. He thinks she was gentle. Graceful, even. Definitely strong. There're hints of wistful yearning scattered between one note and the next, and they're almost unbearable. Had the song always been this sad? Had he always known he was going to lose her, even as they ran and ran and it seemed like they would never, ever stop?
Her name was Clara. At the end of it all, she was no longer a girl. She was a woman, a woman who saved him time and time again, a woman whom he would tread through hell and high water for. That may be all he ever knows. He starts playing her song again and hopes it will never end. But it does, as all things have to.