Following their exchange, Rose took a day to pick herself up and wrestle her courage to pay him that visit. When had she gone so yellow, again? Oh, right. When her best friend said he went and changed his face not once, but twice, to keep on living. When she was smack dab with the inevitable that, one way or another, she was gonna be cut from this fantastical equation. So very human, her. Rose Tyler hadn't much of anything to be ashamed of when it came to her humanity, but it could be an inconvenient reminder. A unavoidable fragility that would call it quits before she did, if she had anything to say about it. Someday—
Well, here it was, more or less. Something must've happened to her, she reasoned. Perhaps even sooner rather than later, depending on when he came from. They'd been brilliant. Past tense.
And what about it? What about the only him she'd—thus far—known? She thought of Satellite 5, of the Daleks and the possibility that one of those regenerations was a product of it. Rose had been desperate to cross the two hundred thousand year gap to get back to him. She remembered a light, the haunt of a melody. She recalled, however vague, hearing him, feeling him, before the hum of the TARDIS surrounded her. After that? The Moya.
Wrapped up with anxiousness, her gut a knot of questions, she neared the familiar blue doors. Hesitance, she hated it, stayed her hand.