Maybe in an alternate universe where you are less cruel and I am less broken,
we sit right now in the midst of that life of which we dreamed so hard that dreaming became the act of fighting.
Maybe that universe we wrote for ourselves, a mirror in which we constructed to reflect ourselves in a better light, exists. Perhaps because we wrote it, spoke it, wished for it, we made it true.
Perhaps this universe exists somewhere in the farflung web of timelines, universes, alternates, because we made it so.
Do you ever think Martha Jones wakes up and looks at the man sleeping next to her, the man she married, the man who helped her save the world in another timeline and thinks ‘yeah but he’s still not a Time Lord’.
Cause in my headcanon, she does.