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Bill is lying on her belly on the TARDIS floor, with its doors wide open, and watches stars. None of them looks like the one in Heather’s eye and yet Bill thinks of her. Of course, she does.
“I’m getting it fixed,” – that’s what Heather said like her beautiful star was a defect, an ugly mark to be ashamed of. She also said that she wanted to leave everywhere she went – and who knows, maybe the star was part of the reason why. It made Heather stand out from every crowd, it made her noticeable – and maybe Heather didn’t like it.
Bill will never know for sure now… No, no, actually, she will. One day she will. She glares stubbornly into the infinite vastness of space as if daring it to object. It prudently doesn’t.
But although they never got to know each other properly, Bill feels pretty confident in a couple of things. And, liking Heather as much as she does, Bill knows she would never agree with her, not on some pretty major points.
Bill feels that, even if Heather didn’t like to be noticed, she was glad to be noticed by Bill – because it wasn’t an intrusion, it was a connection, instant and blazing and unmissable like a comet in the sky but far more lasting.
Bill believes, with all her stupid sentimental heart, that Heather had no need to leave – or at least to become a creepy puddle to do so. If only she waited for a bit longer – maybe then the Doctor could show the Universe to both of them, perfectly imperfect in being humans and in love.
Bill knows that Heather’s star was never, never ever ever, a defect. Every star is special, every single one of them shines brightly through hundreds, thousands of light years only to be seen by mere mortals and be marvelled at for centuries and inspire poets and whatever. And not only that.
Bill ponders how could Heather not know that every star is also a sun? Silly, silly girl.
One day, Bill will find her sun again. And then she’ll tell her.