“Well, I obviously got it wrong.”
She has more to say, about seeing the future - their future - but it stills in her throat. He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, and she gets the feeling that if he still had big ears and a northern accent, a very familiar phrase would have been the next thing coming out of his mouth.
“I’m not human, Rose.”
He’s staring straight at her, focus unwavering from her face like he’s pleading her feeble mind to understand without having to say the words. Different phrasing, four words as opposed to two, but the end result is the same: she still feels like the same stupid ape she was when she first stepped onto the TARDIS.
You’re human. I’m not. His look says and she finally understands what they actually mean.
Something inside her breaks a little. She’s clearly gotten this all so wrong. She’d grown up her whole life thinking she wasn’t good enough, thinking she wasn’t special, but when she met the Doctor, she thought it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that she was poor or that she worked in a shop or that she never got her A Levels - in the Doctor’s eyes, she was still fantastic. But now, staring up at him, in the dark on a sidewalk outside a bloody chippy, she realizes she was just kidding herself. Even now, she still has a qualifier dancing around her: You are brilliant, Rose Tyler… For a human.
And what’s more, she’s gotten them wrong too. With all his insistence that he did want her along, she had deluded herself into thinking that they had something special - that her hands holding his or his arms around her meant something now than just ‘best mates’. She thought they were… But she was wrong. She’s not special; she’s just another notch on his metaphorical bed post.
He takes her silence as confusion and continues, his harsh words sustinct and heartbreaking, meant to cause as much damage as possible, even midst promises of not to you.
Rose Tyler listens as her world crashes down around her.