The Doctor could sense the shape of Rose's lips against his in his mind the moment the other him kissed her.

...the gentle press of her mouth, oh, he had never known this, how could he have resisted doing this every moment and why would he ever, ever stop…

He couldn't stop the surge of bitterness that burned under the heartbreak, try as he might. He looked away quickly, forcing his eyes away from Rose (his Rose), knowing he didn't have the right to feel jealous. You can give her this, he reminded himself. Just this.

...his lapel crumpled by her tight hold, barely noticing his arms coming up to wrap around her until he felt her hair crushed beneath his hand, soft against her smooth jacket, pulling her toward him, desperately needing her closer…

He swallowed heavily, making himself turn around. She kissed him within hours of knowing him and she wouldn't kiss you for months... a voice inside his head hissed. You couldn't even tell her the end of that sentence, another voice snapped. No wonder she went to the other you so quickly. He opened the TARDIS and stepped inside quickly, closing his eyes.

…her hand in his hair, the wind brushing both of them, her lips still moving against his, everything so wonderful and delicate…

He walked over to the console rapidly, wanting to get away from the feeling of Rose pressed against his body that wouldn't stop, hoping fervently that the mind link with his other self would weaken with distance because he didn't know how he'd be able to (stop himself going back even though it would rip everything apart and Rose might never forgive him) have the kind of focus he needed to stay alive. He pulled the lever, the TARDIS announcing its disappearance the way it always did. Rose doesn't need you anymore, he told himself sharply.

…that sound, it was so dear to him and he could barely bring himself to care with Rose pressed to him—but she was pulling away, why—oh, she still loved the first him—a stabbing pain in his heart, her sadness over someone who wasn't him, she remembered the last time she had been left on this beach—he walked up behind her, slipping his hand into hers, skin against skin, she glanced down and then back up at him, both of them realizing that they wouldn't be alone…

He looked up at Donna, knowing what would have to come next. It's better when you're alone, anyway, the voices inside his head murmured. You can only hurt yourself, then, and what does that matter? He exhaled quietly. Not at all, he thought. It doesn't really matter at all.