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Don’t.
The Doctor’s mind said one thing, but his feet did another. Purposefully, his trainers clopped across the museum’s tile flooring, past a donation box, beyond a map displayed on the wall, not even hesitating as someone tried to ask him if he needed help finding something.
It won’t do any good.
But his steps were surer than ever. It had been a long time, possibly years, since he’d followed this path, but it was as familiar as if he’d known it forever. His heartbeats picked up as he reached a room filled with statues.
You can turn back. You can forget about this; it’s not too late.
Yet, something deep within him knew that this wasn’t something he wanted to do; it was something he had to do.
His insides stiffened like the unmoving marble surrounding him. He kept his head down, but knew instinctively when he’d reached his destination.
Before he lost his nerve, the Doctor looked up.
It was Rose. It was her standing there before him, every detail exactly as he remembered it. Her full lips, her inquisitive eyes, her incredible beauty—it was a perfect likeness.
The Doctor’s hands ached at just the thought of the weeks it had taken to perfect the work of art before him. He hadn’t been meticulous because he’d already seen what the statue looked like; he’d been so careful because it was Rose he’d been capturing. How did one encapsulate someone like Rose Tyler within harsh stone?
That was why he’d never felt the pain and weariness as he’d worked under Michelangelo’s harsh teaching. His thoughts had been so full of Rose that he simply hadn’t had the room to think of anything else.
But why had he had to make it so lifelike, so real?
He felt the loss in his very bones. As much as this looked like Rose, it was only a replica, an unfeeling lump of cold stone that could never hope to mimic the warmth of the real Rose Tyler.
Something fundamental inside of this body craved that warmth. Needed it. He was connected to Rose in a way he couldn’t explain, the first face he’d seen, the hands that had cared for him despite everyone’s doubt, even her own. Who was he without Rose Tyler?
Like an instinct, a reflex, the Doctor reached out to take the stone Rose’s hand.
His fingers passed through empty air.
Shocked, the Doctor glanced down, having completely forgotten about the statue’s missing hand. He felt an even sharper stab of loss in his stomach. He flexed his fingers, feeling the shadow of Rose’s touch, and dug his hands deep into his pockets.
And he simply stood, gazing at the woman he’d lost forever.
“We’re closing up here in a minute.”
The Doctor was shaken out of something like a trance by a caretaker walking by, wheeling a bucket and mop behind him. It took a moment for the Doctor to come to grips with the fact that time was still moving. He could stand here eternally until the statue crumbled to dust, and still he wouldn’t be satisfied.
But it wasn’t to be. He could never come here again; if he did, he was sure he would lose himself. Even to tear himself away now would be a feat that he wasn’t sure he could accomplish.
“If it’s my last chance to say it…” he murmured to the statue. He kissed his fingertips and touched them briefly to Rose’s lips. “Rose Tyler…”
The words stuck in his throat. It didn’t matter, anyway. This Rose wasn’t real; just a memory.
So the Doctor turned and left, never looking back, the words unsaid hanging in the air of the museum for eternity.