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Clara feels alone.
She could call the Doctor. But she doesn't.
He would come immediately if she did, he would do his best to help or he'd take her running so fast that she could nearly forget.
But there's something stopping her that she can't describe or define. Maybe she knows that it won't actually help, that he won't actually make her feel anything, that he probably feels about as much as she does anyway.
She's slightly nauseous, wrapped in her duvet that's keeping in just a little too much heat and watching the luminescent numbers on her clock grow and shrink the more she stares at them.
Music floats quietly out her phone. It's suitably depressing, but it doesn't really capture how she's feeling. Or the lack of feeling she has.
This numbness. It's been a constant for a while, but it's never seemed like a major problem before.
Sure, some days are harder than others. Some days every movement feels impossible and every limb feels heavy. But most days she just gets on with it.
Get on with teaching, get on with running, get on with life. Forget that not everyone feels like this.
Recently she's been more aware of it. In every second that she's not doing something, it rises to the surface. Reminds her that while she may look like a functioning member of society, she can't remember the last time she actually felt one of the emotions she shows so easily on her face.
When was the last time she cried?
Is tonight going to be a night she sleeps for two hours or twelve?
What time is it? She's still staring at the numbers on her clock, but they don't register. Isn't time relative anyway?
She can't tell if it’s crawling along or speeding past.
Her leg twitches a few times, trying to expel some of whatever it is that’s pent up inside her, contradicting her lack of energy or emotion.
Eyelids heavy but not wanting to day to end, she blinks a few times. If she sleeps then the next thing she knows will be her alarm going off and there's no guarantee that tomorrow will be better than today.
If she goes to sleep then she’s going to have to face it.
She just wants everything to stop for a bit. For her to feel a little in tune with what's happening around her or to just leave entirely.
It wouldn't be that hard, really. To just leave.
Idly she plans what she plans what she would write as the parting words to her friends and family.
Who would she even write a message to?
Her gran: hey gran, I love you, but no offence I'm probably going to be seeing you soon, 'cause your pretty old.
Her dad: to my dearest father, I guess my inability to cope with loss came from you. Sorry.
Maybe that would be a little harsh. She wouldn't want him to blame himself.
The school perhaps: sorry you're going to have to find a new teacher at such short notice.
She snorts softly to herself. She’s an inconvenience even in death.
There's only one other people she would say anything to. The only person who she really feels like would care.
Her Doctor: I love you. You have to know this by now. Don't worry, daft old man, it's platonic, I'm not professing my undying romantic love for you on my death bed. Big gestures aren't really our thing. Which is why I'm going quietly. There’re not many people to fuss about me here, I'll just be another case to add to the pile of 'mental health, not much we could have done'. I know this will hurt you, and I'm sorry. But we both know I couldn't keep this up forever. My lifetime was never going to be as long as yours. Find someone else, you always do eventually. But sooner rather than later, ey? You're not very good at being on your own. Ps, your picture in my phone is a stick insect. Gotcha.
Maybe she should get help. Like professional help. But what are they going to do, give her meds? Sounds like all the more temptation to take a few to many in one go.
She shakes her head slightly to stop her train of thought.
It's not the first time and she doubts it will be the last.
Her head gives a throb and she suddenly feels the dryness of her throat.
Groaning slightly, she hauls herself out of bed and downs glasses of water until they don’t even taste like water anymore and somehow make her throat feel more like sandpaper.
Stood in the kitchen, noticing but not feeling the cold of the tiles on her bare feet, she sees the rain beating down at the windows and for a moment she has an impulse to go out and just stand, maybe even lie, out there in the rain.
The cooler air or the harsh drops might remind her that she is actually still alive. They might make it easier to bury the knowledge that she doesn't feel anything anymore.
When she goes back to bed it's to see 3 missed calls from the Doctor, each 5 minutes apart. She hadn't realise how much time she'd spent staring at the window with some sort of indescribable jealousy as the sound of the rain lulled her into a false sense of security.
She listens to the latest voicemail from him and forgets for a split second that she has been planning a suicide note only a little while before.
He sounds exited. His usual hyper self. She can imagine him in those stupid glasses, with his guitar slung about his shoulders, stood at the console of his beloved TARDIS while he leaves her a message, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he describes the place he wants to show her now.
She craves more. She wants to forget.
Well, she wants to feel, but that isn't possible. Forgetting is the next best.
So she texts him back. Meet me in five.
She grabs some clothes and pulls her hair up into a ponytail as it gets dragged around by the rush of wind that signifies the arrival of her best friend.
Time to run again.