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You know she isn’t totally happy. She broods about returning to Gallifrey and mentions not wanting to return to N-Space. You think it’s just grumblings: it’s her normal complaints. But when she tells you she’s not coming, it feels like a smack to the face.
You hide the pain well. You’re used to this now. It’s not like it was when you were younger, when you would cry and sulk and curse yourself and your lonely fate. You’ve grown. You know it’s selfish and unkind to throw a fit and cry about these things. So you hide it. You give a few quick questions, just to make sure she’s certain and ready to leave. And she is. She has always been aware and confident in her abilities, even if she’s overestimated herself. That’s why you love her.
You give her what you can to make her succeed; some supportive words, your dog. You turn and close the door, and see the boy. He can’t see your hurt. He can see your foolishness, your mistakes, but he can’t see your pain. He’s been through enough. You set coordinates, take off, and think about your next trip. Eventually she’ll get smaller in your mind, like the others, like your family, like Susan.
But when you’re in bed at night, alone, away from him, you feel the tears start to pool when you remember how she used to kiss you goodnight. Her first jasmine-scented kiss after Paris fills your mind. The tears course quietly down your face.
You turn over in bed. You’ll make her small, just like she made you.