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The Doctor woke up. Looking around, he discovered he was in a bed. He didn't usually just lie down for a rest in a bed in a bedroom like humans do. This was... weird. His face felt wet. As if he'd been crying. Why had he been crying? Suddenly, he felt tears falling from his eyes again. He felt so damn sad, and he had no idea why. It had something to do with this room. He was clutching onto a pillow like his life depended on it, and he just couldn't figure it out. The pillow almost smelled like... someone. He didn't know who.
When his tear ducts ran dry, he got up and left the room, taking the pillow with him. He just couldn't let go of it. The scent saddened him. It also made him feel alive. There was a gaping hole in the Doctor's life now, and he didn't know who or what had filled it. There were vague memories of... what was her name? Oh yes. Clara. But had he felt so strongly for her? So strongly that he would find himself in... oh... it must've been... her old bedroom? Holding a pillow, a pillow that must've smelled like her, and crying?
Slumping against the console of his beloved TARDIS, he supposed, after thinking for a long time, that he had.