Future Amy: I got old, Rory. What did you think was going to happen?
Rory: Hey! I don’t care that you got old. I care that we didn’t grow old together. Amy, come on, please.
Future Amy: Don’t touch me. Don’t do that.
Rory: It’s like you’re not even her.
Future Amy: Thirty-six years, three months four days of solitary confinement. This facility was built to give people a chance to live. I walked in here and I died.