He's a contradiction. Old, yet young. Certifiably insane, and yet sees with more clarity than everyone else. So incredibly stubborn, and yet never fails to break his own rules. He interferes, in everything.
She asks herself, when he's sleeping soundly (oddly so, considering all the years he has had to build up a repertoire nightmares), and she has snuck onto the bridge of the TARDIS to stare at the endless, endless space, whether she had made a mistake. Whether, by entering his little blue box and running away from her impending marriage she fulfilled every stereotype about cold feet and forever robbed herself of her own ability to be a contradiction.
She asks herself this, while intently watching the stars drift slowly out of the porthole view, ignoring the gentle snoring of The Doctor in the other room and the echoing unfamiliarity of it.
A meteor drifts past the window, and she jerks back at the closeness of it. She had been in a car accident when she was fourteen. There were no serious injuries, but the suddenness, the instinctive flinch that occurred so fast she wasn't even sure why she was doing it, the ache in her shoulders as they strained against the seatbelt; it made her aware of how fragile she was. That in a potentially deadly situation, she had no control over herself. Her instincts took over, and her body was no longer hers, and she was nothing more than an awkward, long-limbed sack of potatoes when physics were involved. And that scared her. Scares her.
She leans her head on the cool, thick glass of the porthole and closes her eyes. She supposes she never even had the ability to be a contradiction. Stay or go, she was a stereotype. One the audacious adventurer, not wanting to be pinned down with objects or relationships. The other, married, disillusioned, and forever searching the skies for an imaginary visitor.
There is no control.
AN: Vaguely based off of Poetry of Departures by Philip Larkin. That guy seriously hated life. This is angsty. I'm sorry. I really don't have issues.