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Yaz always thought, when she was strong enough to let herself think about it, that when she lost the Doctor, it'd be in a blaze of drama and tears and fighting to hold on. Thought it'd be the end of her life, if she was honest, because she was sure nothing else could get her to let go.
This isn't any of those things. It's quiet, and stifled, and she finds herself wishing for drama, for a storm. It isn't right, to lose the best person she's ever met like it's nothing at all.
The words to change it are clogged in the back of her throat, but she won't say them. She can't, because she knows neither of them will survive it intact, and she has to pretend to be intact, for the Doctor's sake. She can't scream and cry and make a fuss about it, not when the Doctor is dying, not when it's the last gift Yaz has to give: no goodbyes.
Wait, she thinks, helpless, as they settle into the rhythm of co-piloting the TARDIS. So familiar by now, so normal, like it's not the last time.
She imagines herself saying the word, shaping it, forcing it out. Wait. Stop. Make time. Just this once, before you go.
Before she goes, and yet it's Yaz who'll have to leave, step out the door like her heart isn't breaking.
It's not that they never talked about it. They've never been good with words, the two of them, not for the big things. But the understanding has been there, for a long time, half-said: that Yaz is part of this Doctor's life. That when that ends, so do they. That this is better than holding on too long, only for it to be Yaz's grave the Doctor stands over, no orange light to save her by changing all she is. Just the end.
At least that way, Yaz thinks, I wouldn't have to feel it.
But it's not that she wants that. She just wants time. More time. This is all too fast. She can still taste ice cream on her tongue. She's still wearing the same jacket she put on back before she had any idea this could be the end of them.
It should be bigger than this. Bigger than a bunch of unsaid words, like what they were was something small.
The syllables crowd in Yaz's throat, choking her, and she tries to swallow, to breathe. The Doctor looks up at her, smiles a small, strained smile, like she thinks she's hiding the ancient sadness in her own eyes. Yaz smiles back, lets the Doctor believe she's got away with it, that Yaz doesn't see.
This is, after all, the last thing she can give her. The last thing that maybe, in a century's time, the Doctor will look back on with fondness. If nothing else, maybe she'll remember Yaz as the one who didn't make her say goodbye.
And yet, and still, there's so much of her that wants to break her last gift in half, because she was stronger, breathing for the last time outside of planet Earth, and now that the end is close enough to touch, she wants to say something.
Not goodbye. She thinks goodbye might break her just like it would the Doctor, because goodbye means accepting this is really the end, and if she lets that truth in, she'll shatter into pieces. Not goodbye, but something, some of the words she never let herself say.
Before you go, Doctor. Will you ever come back? Will you think about me? Will I just be another name in a story you tell someone else?
She is stronger than the part of her that wants to ask. Stronger than she used to think, and it's the Doctor who showed her that, too. There's comfort, almost, in the fact that if the Doctor walks away from this and never thinks about her again, at least it won't be her Doctor who's forgetting. Her Doctor has made Yaz a part of her life from the very beginning to this, the very end, and that has to mean something. It has to mean she means something.
But there are all the other words. The things Yaz never really said, because the Doctor told her they would hurt, and Yaz would rather leave them unsaid than hurt her, no matter how much the silence burned.
Before you go, you know you were everything to me, right? You know my life will never be half as good without you. You know if I could ask for one thing, all I'd want would be more time.
The TARDIS lands with a familiar wheezing clunk, and for a second, Yaz can almost believe this is just another adventure. A whole new world or a whole different era waiting outside those doors, and in a moment, the Doctor will check something on the console or take a look outside and tell her where they are (usually nowhere near where they were aiming at), and they'll walk out into it together. See more things she'll never forget, fall into danger like they always do, and get each other out of it.
For a half-second, as the Doctor looks down at the console, she expects her to start infodumping about wherever they are, enthusiasm written all over her face.
Instead, she says, “Here we go, then,” not really looking at Yaz, and there's a false lightness in her voice.
Yaz feels sick, dizzy, her palms sweating, her heart beating too fast. This can't be it. Can't be how it ends.
Before you go, and it's her last chance to say it. To say everything. She knows she won't, and she knows that'll hurt for the rest of her life, but how do you find the words, when it's the end? How does she find the words, when she promised no goodbyes? How does she find the words, when she tells herself she wants to be remembered as the one who didn't kick and scream and cry and fight and make it hard?
Before you go, I love you.
Six words. She could say them. But she never would. She never will. She's not sure she'll ever be able to say the last three again, because how do you move on from the best person you'll ever meet?
“Right,” she says instead. “Yeah. Okay, then.”
The Doctor looks at her, then. Gives her that. Steps round the console, and touches her arm. Light, brief, and that, Yaz thinks, that's the last time they'll ever touch, and it's nothing. It's nothing, and it'll still be something she thinks about for the rest of her life.
“Anything you need?” the Doctor asks, like Yaz is just going home for the weekend, like she's just heading out to work in the morning, like this isn't their own little world, ending.
A dozen responses chase each other through her brain. More time. Something to hold onto. A hug. Answers. To know you'll remember me. Not to lose you.
“No,” she says instead. “Nothing.”
She has stuff here, of course. Clothes and books and random treasures from adventures together. But if she gets her things, the end will be more real. And there'll be questions from her family. And maybe part of her wants to leave them, too, so some part of her stays here. So the Doctor won't forget.
She looks at the Doctor again, wishes she could memorise every last line of her, exactly as she is, all except the orange glow of her hands, the glow of ending.
“Thanks,” she says, and it could mean for dropping me here or for being the whole world or anything in between.
The Doctor nods. “You're welcome.”
And that's all.
The steps Yaz takes towards the door are slow. They feel loud, ringing with finality, and this can't be how it ends, but here she is.
The Doctor follows her, and for a moment, Yaz is caught breathless, still hoping, despite it all, for one last something. A hug. Some words. Anything for her to cling on to, after the Doctor is gone.
But the Doctor just stands near the door, watches her take a step outside. Into sunshine, and she wants the dimness of the TARDIS back like she's never wanted anything, but she forces herself not to turn around.
She walks, one foot in front of the other, until she's several feet away. And if she were braver, she'd keep walking. Keep walking, not look back, not give the Doctor a chance to see any part of her breaking.
She remembers hearing a story in school, Orpheus and Eurydice, and thinking how silly he was, not able to do something as easy as keep looking forward.
She thinks she understands, now. Because she stops, and she looks back, and her look won't kill the Doctor (maybe she'd be stronger than Orpheus, if that's what was on the line), but it might just be the moment that breaks her, when she remembers.
The Doctor is still watching her.
Yaz nods, like permission, like it's okay, like I'm not breaking, like thank you, like I let you go.
The Doctor smiles, a small, tight smile, nothing like the grin that could light up a whole universe. She smiles, and she nods back, and then she steps inside, and in that last heartbeat, her face is so terribly sad.
And then the door shuts, the glow of her hand the last thing Yaz sees.
And this is how she loses the most impossible, most incredible person she's ever known. A nod, and a closed door, and the wheeze of the TARDIS for the very last time, and before you go, I love you is a lost possibility, and all that's left is I love you, and you're gone.