Rose lounged on her bed in the TARDIS, looking around her room while the rim of her martini glass rested against her lip with the drink still untasted. It was like having double vision sometimes, looking at all the things she had two of now. She tried to look at them without letting the memories overwhelm her. Two backpacks (but not when she first packed properly to go traveling with her Doctor), two pairs of dainty Victorian boots (but not their first trip to Cardiff), two diaries (but not the point at which they diverge), too many memories of two lost Doctors.
There were things that stood alone, too, un-mirrored but just as full of memories. There was only one set of plants (she'd taken an interest in them only in the last few months; plants are grounded, and can't run away). There was only one superphone (version 3.0), one never-delivered Christmas present (tucked into a dark corner of her closet), one suddenly-empty martini glass (dropped on the bed beside her where he used to be), one broken heart.
She didn't look for the missing things. The smear of makeup on the wall from that horrible Halloween just past when she'd stumbled into her room drunk and crying and bruised would never appear. Neither would the tin of ball-bearing cookies he'd brought home, with glasses of milk with funny straws; neither would promises of eggs; neither would the smiles and arms and man she loved so much. She didn't look, but couldn't forget.
Nothing could fill the empty spaces, but the alcohol numbed the edges and let her remember for a time.