Disclaimer: I own a cell phone, a grotesque amount of books, three pairs of shoes and a pen (among other things), but not DBZ or any of the characters from the show.

A/N: This is extremely angsty, and I hope not too confusing. It basically revolves around Bulma dealing with breaking up with Yamcha for the final time. It's not long, but may be related to my B/V fic in the future (I haven't quite written that far yet ;). If so, I'll make note of it in The Colours Within.

sincerely yours, bulma.

I'm just writing you this letter because I need someone to talk to. You don't have to worry about writing back or anything like that; I'm mostly just putting words on paper for the sake of letting my emotions out. I may not even send this to you.

We broke up. It happened yesterday evening. I watched him leave my house in a rage, and I waited for him to turn around and see me standing there in the doorway as he always does. But he didn't. He walked to the end of my driveway and disappeared around the corner. I closed the door then, slowly, and made my way upstairs to where my bed beckoned. He hadn't spared me a backwards glance.

I'll admit that a few tears fell from my eyes, but I forced myself to be strong. He would call me later. He always did; and I looked forward to his regular calling time of twenty minutes after ten. I continued with the work I'd started on my computer, and an hour or so later I had a shower – like every other night. I took a book and crawled into bed to read for a little bit.

Quarter to eleven. No phone call.

A few more tears soaked into my pillow as I lay down to go to sleep.

I listened to sad, depressing music after work today, and I cried a bit more. I want to call him, but I know that I can't. I'm too proud for that. Maybe that was why all this started in the first place – my pride. I know that I don't communicate well. I guess that must've been hard for him. But all I want to do is call him, talk to him just once, and let him know that I'm sorry. I really do love him, even now.

It's been almost exactly one day since he stormed from my house and I already miss him. I miss knowing that he's there for me. Maybe I took for granted the fact that he would always be there, since it felt like he had always been there before. I assumed that no matter what happened he would come back to me. I'm scared to go to him; I can't handle being rejected. Not by him.

I tell myself that in two years' time, none of this will matter. I'll look back on this, on us, and take it as a learning experience. I will remember the good times we shared and be taught by the hardships. In two years I'll remember that I was upset, but won't really remember why. I'll remember that I did love him – maybe I'll love him still – but I'll have moved on. Maybe I won't be with someone else, but I'll be able to be independently single.

I think that the heart is a miraculous thing. It always manages to heal itself, no matter the damage. Sometimes there's some scarring, but they serve as reminders of the lessons learned. But although I can say this rationally, I can't believe my own words right now. Right now I feel like my whole world is shattered; I feel like my heart will never be whole again.

But as crushed as I am right now, as much as I miss him, I'm beginning to think that maybe this is best for the both of us. We haven't been getting along at all recently; he's jealous of Vegeta. He never talked to me about it, just took his anger out on me; likewise I never discussed the issue with him, just retaliated.

We spent so much of our lives together. We made it through so much. It seems such a waste to throw it all away now. Wording it this way, I envision torn paper dancing across the wind, my time spent with him floating away wherever the wind feels fit to take it. I suppose that perhaps this isn't the best imagery to use; I don't regret my time spent with him. I don't want back the love I gave him. I don't want to disregard the lessons I learned with and from him. Perhaps instead I should envision a paper, whole but maybe crumpled, placed in the bottom drawer of a desk rarely used, under dusty folders and high-school papers, where it can be looked at when the time is right.

Now I ask you this: What is a girl to do when the only person she can talk to is the one person she can't talk to?

I knew as soon as I started this letter that I would never send it to you, because you are he and even under these circumstances I can't allow myself to be that vulnerable to you. I can't allow myself to be subjected to your anger and your unfounded jealousy.

If you, too, are upset right now, and thinking of me, I can only tell you the same things I have been telling myself: At another time, in another place, when you are ready, the perfect person will walk into your life and you will wonder why you were so saddened by the wrong one.

Sincerely yours,

Bulma.