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Thousands of years have passed. No one remembers who you used to be, let alone any of your previous names. Hell, you barely remember them yourself. But that's not what's upset you.
No, what truly bothers you is the fact that, after all these years, your mind is finally fraying.
You had stayed strong those first few years, waiting for your Doctor. You had stayed strong after, when you knew they would never stay even when you were the closest thing they had to a constant.
You'd nearly broken only once. And it had nothing to do with the Doctor.
It made sense. A human mind wasn't meant to last as long as yours, even with you hardly being human anymore. It should have crumbled early on, even without losing who you'd lost. Perhaps you've grown too confident, too sure that you could remember without outside aid? That would make sense, given that you've been fine for ages. Maybe the strain of millennium upon millennium has finally overridden the barriers you put in place.
And truly, it isn't as if you are losing your entire mind. No, you have simply noticed a few signs. Most weren't any different than the natural memory fading you are used to. Hardly anything that should hurt you.
But one thing stood out.
There was one thing- one thing- you promised yourself to remember. That you stated was the only thing you had to remember. That you told the Doctor was what would come to define you, what, if you ever forgot, would signal that your end was finally near.
His name. No, not your name, his name.
You knew you'd never forget what he meant to you, would never forget the gist of what happened to him, would never forget how he made you feel. Makes you feel. Even in madness, even in half-deaths, even if you finally, truly die one day. Even when you forgot your own name, when you forgot the names of your children, when you forgot not just the names but the existences of friends, lovers, family. You would not forget him. You didn't think you could. (You hope you can't.)
You had forgotten his face long ago, but that doesn't worry you anymore. You'd forgotten where you met, how you met, even had little idea what species he was and how he spoke. What he sounded like, what he loved. You didn't want to forget those things, but you knew you would. He had known. You'd tried not to, he'd asked you not to, but there were only so many notes you could write. Only so many pictures you could draw.
(You're fairly certain that after he died, something- a shrine, maybe? - was made for him by the people he saved. You barely remember visiting it, remember there were photos and flowers and notes, though you don't remember where it was.
You made a museum for him once. It had lasted for hundreds of years. You think you visited regularly, hosted talks, cried. You'd only forgotten the sound of his voice by then. You made another years after that one closed, when everyone but you had forgotten him, but it didn't stay open as long. It hurt too much to visit at that point, when you were the only person who cared about it. About him.
You should have saved more photos, more notes. Should have tried harder. You might have remembered his face longer if you had.
But nothing is eternal. Not mementos, not your memories, not your Doctor, not those you love or have loved.
Nothing except you.)
His name is so tied to your feelings for him that you knew, once you forgot, you would unravel. Mostly from the grief of having forgotten, but also simply from your foundation crumbling.
You haven't seen the Doctor in at least a few thousand years. Haven't heard of them, either, which is odd. So you have no hope of help from that source.
And with the latest wars came data purges, resulting in all past knowledge from several galaxies (such as the one he'd been from) vanishing.
You have lost him again. And this time?
You do break.