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The Doctor grabs the packages and they reveal Donna's face and it feels like someone's taken a sledgehammer to his ribs. She waves goodbye, all casual and unbothered and giving whoever's on the phone a piece of her mind and he wants to laugh because that's her, that's his best friend. But she doesn't remember him. Can't remember him. And it kills him, eats him up inside something awful 'til it feels like he's drowning.
He remembers how she takes her coffee, remembers that she doesn't like tea and wouldn't the Americans get a laugh out of that? A Brit who hates tea. But he can't laugh. She was his laughter. Her daughter's name is Rose and that hurts like nothing else. Please look at me, please. Don't look at me. Don't come near me, please. Please, I miss you. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.
He puts the packages back in place like he's bricking up his heart, like that can stop the tidal wave of anguish because she's gotten older and his face is still the same. He's changed and changed and changed and ended up right back here, with this face that she knew. But she doesn't know it, can't know it, or he'll lose her all over again. He can't take it.
Please look at me.
He wonders if this is how Clara felt, and oh, it aches. Clara and Donna might've been friends, if they'd gotten the chance. His head aches still, old and gray and Scottish except not really. Donna's always haunted him. That face came back for a reason. A reminder. Save who you can save. He tries so hard but they just keep slipping through his fingers again and again and again. He thinks maybe it would be better if he stopped trying, except he could never truly leave. Who is he without them?
Alone. Always alone. The loneliest little boy (little girl, little kid) in the universe. He's always been lonely. He and she and they and every person he's ever been has been lonely and lonely and alone. Please don't leave me.
How's that song go? Slipping through my fingers all the time? Sounds about right.
He feels lopsided with her suddenly gone, like someone has scooped one of his hearts out of his chest cavity. He turns to make a joke, a comment, an observation, and she's not there. Keeps searching for a flash of ginger hair (and he did always want to be ginger, didn't he?) in his periphery. The feeling creeps back in after Amy, folding and unfolding in his chest like the little origami cranes she tried to make when they visited Japan. She'd wanted sushi and he'd taken her to a little place on the coast in 1989 because he wanted her to try his favorites.
Here, try this. Make a memory with me, fold a crane. They'd sat on the docks, shoes of and feet dangling in the water and he'd been happier than he'd been since Rose. He sees Clara holding up that autumn leaf and thinks of ginger hair and miso soup and a dock in Japan and a million different ways to say I miss you please come home.
There's no choice and he's losing her again (has been losing her for centuries he thinks cos it's a free fall isn't it?), partition keeping him from reaching out and touching her and he wishes they had more time. Funny that, a Timelord wishing for more time. But not for him. He wants her to get to watch her brilliant incredible amazing daughter grow up and she's yelling at him and he's never been happier and never been in more pain.
He holds her as she dies and she's smiling and he just. keeps. losing.
She's got crow's feet and smile lines and there's strands of grey in her hair but she's alive and she remembers him and god, it's like music. He remembers how she takes her coffee, and why is she surprised? Of course he remembers.
Grief like a cup of coffee spilled all over the TARDIS console.
One last adventure. Come see the stars with me.