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The summer night had draped its warm, star‑spangled cloak across London, and the city, perpetually humming even in the small hours, seemed softer, more forgiving. Gentle pockets of laughter slipped from open pub doors, taxis splashed through rain‑darkened streets, and high above it all the stars winked through the thin cloud cover. After a late night at a club in Soho, Matt and his friend Robert slipped out of a side exit and headed into the cool night, the former pulling the brim of a cap low over his brow. It was an old trick to ward off the long lenses and sharp questions that awaited him if he ventured out unmasked. Of late the tabloids had taken an almost gleeful interest in his private life, indulging in breathless headlines about him being one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors. The attention left him both amused and weary. Tonight, he only wanted to walk and talk with a friend beneath the glittering canopy, untroubled by flashbulbs.
“It’s almost peaceful at this hour,” Robert remarked, hands tucked into his pockets. His voice was quiet, as if he were reluctant to disturb the stillness.
“It is,” Matt agreed, his voice equally low. “You forget there’s a rhythm underneath the constant noise.” He watched his breath ghost into the air. For a moment they simply walked, the heavy bass beat of the club fading behind them, replaced by the low murmur of London’s midnight. A cab sped past, the glow from its headlights briefly painting their faces in an amber wash.
Robert stole a sideways glance at him. “So, are they right, then?” he asked, as though continuing a conversation they had started many times but never finished. “You’re not seeing anyone?”
Matt laughed softly. “Journalists never ask themselves why someone might enjoy being single. It doesn’t fit the narrative. According to them, I’m meant to be devastated because I’m not married with a handful of children by now.” He kicked a stone along the pavement, watching it skitter ahead of them. “Forty crept up on me faster than I thought it would. Sure, when I was younger, I imagined I’d have my own family by now. But life rarely unfolds according to our plans. I’m not… unhappy, Rob. I’ve made my peace with it. Better to wait for the right person than to jump into a mistake out of panic.”
Robert gave him a skeptical look. “You sound almost resigned.”
“Do I?” Matt shrugged. “I suppose I’ve become good at letting go of expectations. It’s better than clinging to things that aren’t meant to be.” He paused, hesitating. The night, with its soft whispering, seemed to invite confession. “The present doesn’t fill me with regret. The past, however… I wish I had handled certain things differently.”
Robert took the bait. “Such as? Lily”
Matt hesitated again, then smiled sadly. “Don’t worry, it’s not about Lily. That chapter is long closed.”
Robert raised an eyebrow, his expression curious. “Then who? What could still make you wistful after all this time?”
“Alex,” Matt said softly.
“Alex… Alex Kingston?” Robert sounded surprised, almost incredulous. “We’re talking about Alex Kingston? Still?”
Matt chuckled at his friend’s reaction but sobered quickly. “I don’t think about her all the time, contrary to what you might imagine. It’s not as though I’ve spent the last decade pining. But she does cross my mind from time to time. When I remember those years we worked together, a warmth spreads through me. If there is one regret in my life, it’s tied to her.”
Robert grew silent, intrigued, and Matt could almost see him piece together the image: the exuberant actor, the beloved co‑star. He took a breath, letting his mind drift back to those days, the memories rising with surprising clarity.
“It was easy to admire her,” Matt began, the corners of his mouth lifting in a rueful smile. “She was vibrant and intelligent, with a wit that could disarm anyone. I suppose, initially, I was simply captivated, as many were. But admiration turned into affection before I understood it. I found myself looking forward to the days she was on set more than anything. It wasn’t just that she was fun; there was something about her presence that made the day brighter. My heart would race when she walked into the room, and yet I told myself I was simply pleased to see a friend.”
He paused, the noise of the city fading further into the background as he retreated into memory. “Eventually it dawned on me: it wasn’t just affection. I’d fallen in love with her. Silly, isn’t it? Falling for someone on a set, with cameras and scripts and everyone watching. But there it was. Each stolen glance, each shared joke, each time she offered me one of her radiant smiles – it accumulated until I could no longer deny how I felt. I’d fantasize about telling her, imagine the words spilling from my mouth, but then the day would pass, and I’d tell myself there was time. After all, she was returning for more episodes. There would be another opportunity.”
He shook his head, as if to dispel the clinging ghost of that lost opportunity. “I forgot that the nature of our work is transience. One day you’re together every day, the next you’re gone, pulled into other worlds and roles.”
Robert listened intently. The night’s breeze ruffled his hair, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, but he did not interrupt.
“Then came the last day we were scheduled to work together,” Matt said. “I knew we would film our final scene. Perhaps she’d return in future, but it wouldn’t be with me; I had already decided to leave the show. Steven Moffat had indulged me in bringing River back more than once, and I knew better than to ask for another miracle. That day felt like the end of a chapter. Everything I’d postponed for months suddenly collapsed in on itself, demanding resolution.”
He could still feel the heaviness that had pressed upon his chest as that day began. The hours had been a blur, filled with lines, blocking, hair and makeup, and yet each minute was also excruciatingly clear in his recollection. He had said little, lost in thought, turning over words in his mind like pebbles in his pocket. Alex had noticed something was wrong; how could she not? She had always been perceptive.
“You’re awfully pensive today,” she had murmured during a break, a gentle smile tilting her lips. “When we filmed our scene earlier, I felt like there was something you wanted to say.”
He had looked at her then, really looked at her. Her auburn curls framed her face, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and concern. There was mischief there too, as always. He could have told her then. He should have. But the fear of losing the easy friendship they shared paralyzed him. A confession might end it. Even if she didn’t feel the same, she might be flattered; yet the dynamic would shift irrevocably. He had weighed it all in that heartbeat and caved to cowardice. He offered some half‑hearted excuse about being tired, about going over lines in his head. They had both smiled, and the moment slipped away. Later they had wrapped, the crew applauded, and he had hugged her goodbye, telling her he’d see her soon, that they would keep in touch. He told himself those words would somehow conjure reality. But reality is indifferent to our scripts.
Weeks later, the production threw him a farewell party. Everyone came to celebrate his tenure on the show, to celebrate the Doctor he had been. He stood before that assembled group of colleagues and friends, clutched his prepared speech, and delivered words of gratitude. He thanked Steven and the writers, he thanked the crew, he thanked his fellow actors, but he did not utter her name. It wasn’t malice or forgetfulness; rather, he feared that speaking her name would unlock a torrent of emotion he could not control in front of so many. He could not bear to break down in public. So, he skipped past her and moved on.
Alex wasn’t there. Steven had told him she was filming somewhere else. He swallowed his disappointment, told himself she would have come if she could. Afterwards, he stood among balloons and streamers, accepted hugs and goodbyes, and yet felt the absence of one person more acutely than all the presence around him.
“For a while we texted, occasionally met at events,” he told Robert quietly. “But even the best intentions erode under distance and busy lives. It’s been five years now since I last saw her or heard her voice.”
Robert exhaled, perhaps realizing the depth of what his friend had suppressed. “You told me you never regretted anything in your career. But that wasn’t entirely true. You regret not telling her how you felt.”
“Yes,” Matt admitted. He scuffed the pavement with his boot. “There’s no pain in my life like that of an opportunity missed because I was too afraid to seize it.”
Robert considered this, then said, “I think you owe her more than a regret silently borne. You owed her honesty. Perhaps she deserved to hear it. Keeping quiet was selfish.”
“Selfish?” Matt echoed in astonishment. “I can see it was cowardly, but how could it be selfish? I thought I was sparing her discomfort.”
Robert gave a small shrug. “You assumed an outcome and acted on your fear. You remember the way the two of you flirted. Maybe she felt something too. Maybe she was waiting for you to take that step and you never did. In which case, you didn’t just deny yourself the possibility; you denied her. You took the decision away from both of you.”
Matt opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, struck by the possibility. Until this moment, he had never allowed himself to consider that she might have feelings beyond friendship. He had always assumed his love was unrequited, that it was safer if he never discovered otherwise. The thought that she might have been waiting, hoping, and that his silence had caused her disappointment, or worse, pain, unsettled him deeply.
Robert stopped and pointed towards the sky. “Look,” he murmured. “A shooting star.” A single streak of light arced across the velvet expanse, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“It’s said you should make a wish when you see one,” Robert added with a grin.
Matt tilted his head back, his eyes following the phantom trail, and whispered the words that had haunted him for years. “What if?”
The question drifted up with his breath, entwined with the starlight. For a long moment he stood there, imagining a universe in which he had spoken, in which the future they could have shared had been allowed to blossom. Then the night closed around him again, leaving him with the same emptiness and curiosity that had accompanied him all these years.
The following day, London was washed clean by a shower of rain, everything glistening and new, but Matt’s mind was still mired in the previous night’s conversation. Robert’s words echoed, refusing to be ignored. He made coffee, stared at the dark liquid, and thought of Alex’s laughter. He felt a restlessness that was unusual for him, an urge to do something instead of letting the thought drift away. Perhaps it was time to confront his past head‑on.
Impulsively, he picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Karen’s name. She was a friend who had witnessed much of his and Alex’s interactions. If anyone might provide perspective, it was her.
He pressed call and listened as the dial tone thrummed across continents. It was only when she answered with a groggy “Hello?” that he realized he hadn’t considered time zones. She was in New York, and it was the middle of the night there.
“Karen, I’m so sorry,” he blurted. “I didn’t think about the time. I just—”
“Matt?” she interrupted, sounding baffled. “Do you know what time it is here? What’s going on?”
“Right, sorry,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I needed to ask you something. Did Alex… do you think Alex ever had feelings for me?”
There was a pause. He imagined her sitting up in bed, hair mussed, frown etched between her brows. “What?” she said eventually. “What are you on about? Feelings? For you? Why are you asking me this? It’s four in the morning.”
“I know it sounds insane,” he said in a rush. “I was talking with Robert last night, and he suggested that by not telling her how I felt, I might have hurt her. It made me think back, and I can’t shake it off. You were there. You saw us together. Did you ever think…?”
He trailed off, leaving the question to hang.
Karen let out a sigh, some of her initial annoyance softening. “I’m not entirely sure,” she said carefully. “I can’t know what was in her heart. But at the time, yes, I thought there was something more between you two. The way you bantered, the looks you exchanged. It wasn’t just professional chemistry. Everyone joked about it. And Alex always spoke very fondly of you. She admired you, you know.”
Matt swallowed. He didn’t know why the idea made him simultaneously giddy and sick. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you suspected something?”
“Because it was only a feeling,” she replied. “I didn’t have proof. And I’m not in the business of meddling in people’s personal lives. I thought, perhaps foolishly, that whatever was between you would sort itself out. You’re both adults, right? I assumed you’d find a way to address it.”
He sank onto a chair, the edge cutting into his legs. “Of course she flirted. But Alex flirted with everyone; it was part of her charm. She often dismissed it as being maternal towards us.”
Karen let out a soft laugh. “She would say that. That’s Alex. She’s the queen of deflection. It’s how she protects herself. But there were moments, Matt. Times when I saw something in her eyes when she looked at you. Times when she seemed on the verge of saying something. And then… something shifted. I started to think maybe you two had had a row or something. You stopped mentioning her.”
“When?” he asked, leaning forward.
“At your farewell party,” she answered. “You didn’t invite her, and you didn’t mention her in your speech. It was… strange. People noticed. Alex heard about it. Word travels fast in our circles. She was hurt, Matt. She didn’t understand why you ignored her. She thought she meant nothing to you.”
He felt heat rise behind his eyes. Shame and regret mingled in his stomach. “Steven told me she was busy filming,” he said weakly.
“Maybe she was, but that’s not the point,” Karen snapped, her patience worn thin by sleep deprivation. “If she meant as much to you as you claim, you could have reached out personally. You could have made sure she knew you valued her. You didn’t. Then in your speech, you thanked everyone except her. You think she didn’t notice? Or that others didn’t? People talked. They speculated. You left room for misunderstanding. You created that rift.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” he demanded, his voice rising with his frustration, not at her but at his own blindness. “Why didn’t you say something if you knew it was hurting her?”
“Because it’s not my job to manage your relationships, Matt!” Karen shot back. “I was dealing with my own life, my own commitments. I wasn’t going to chase after you and ask if you’d invited Alex to your party. I thought you knew what you were doing. Anyway, it’s been years. What’s the point of stirring this up now?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his emotions in check. “I don’t know. Maybe I want closure. Maybe I owe her an apology.”
“Fine,” she said, a yawn creeping into her voice. “If you feel you need to contact her, do it. But don’t drag me into the middle. She’s not waiting by the phone, Matt. She has a life. She’s happy. Don’t reopen old wounds if it’s only going to serve your guilt. Think about her, not yourself.”
They ended the call on that note, the connection cutting to silence. Matt set the phone down and stared at his own reflection in the dark screen. His anger at Karen fizzled as quickly as it had flared. She was right: it wasn’t her responsibility to play messenger. He should have acted. Instead, he had taken the path of least resistance and, in doing so, caused more harm than he had intended.
He stood and paced his living room, the wood floors creaking softly under his feet. The question now was whether to reach out to Alex. What could he say? “Hello, we haven’t spoken in years. By the way, I was in love with you. Sorry I didn’t mention it”? The idea bordered on the ridiculous. It risked reopening a wound that might have long healed. He imagined her receiving such a message, the confusion, the pain, the possible anger. Or worse, the indifference. Perhaps she no longer thought of him at all.
He pictured her as he had last seen her: radiant, confident, laughing with a group of friends, her hand resting on another’s arm. She had seemed content. Was it fair to unsettle her now? To dredge up the past to assuage his conscience? The answer was evident. Even if she had felt something for him once, that moment had passed. They had each moved on with their lives, and he had no right to intrude upon hers.
He returned to the kitchen and poured himself another cup of coffee. As he brought it to his lips, his mind played a familiar refrain. What if?