The days passed and turned into weeks, which in turn transformed into a full month. It was a month of utter agony for both occupants of the last desk . . .

For the blue-haired girl the Hell was complete, her blank mind drowning her in a pool of suffocating sorrow and a skein of complex memories and aborted wishes haunting her consciousness, day after day, night upon night . . . She slept less, ate less . . . lived less. She didn't feel like a person anymore, the last of her prayers to this selfish God that existed getting rejected . . .

As for the flame-haired desk-mate of hers, the month had been a hell of seeing Yamcha's annoying scarred face over and over again with a tendency of the number of his visits to dramatically rise as time progressed . . . An appalling idea, especially when added to the fact that his irritating presence seemed to cheer the woman up and even have her recover easy from her previous shock.

It was no secret to anyone—Vegeta was a terrible person. Not only did he like using people to suit his whim but he also enjoyed their suffering afterwards, seeing how they couldn't go on without him, letting him savor in his own greatness when they showed how much they needed him. Yet this dirty rat, a second-rate man-whore, some happy-go-lucky fool who had surely landed in their class by some cruel joke of fate, seemed enough to make a woman—a creature so dependant on his caress, a creature so easily to manipulate—forget all about him! How dare that sorry excuse for a male steal her from him?

However, the zenith of this whole insanity, as Vegeta had kindly labelled it, came during a lunch break on a day which seemed no different than any other boring one . . .

For what time that week, that month, she had lost count, she was sitting on her empty desk, staring vacuously at the wood it was made from, tracing lazy circles with her ever thinning fingers, her small broken nails creating a nagging sound that dug into the ears of those around her, making them send alarming glares her way. However, all of their threats fell on deaf ears as the soulless girl continued her repetitive ministrations, ignoring the world around her . . . a world that she hated and that hated her back . . . a world that wouldn't allow her only dream to come true . . . a cruel world that would never understand . . . an empty world, without a friend in the world, without a friend to care about her most, to put her needs before their, without a friend to be her one, without a friend to be the person just for her . . .

Yamcha sat himself on a free chair on the front desk and observed the depressed girl who had yet to acknowledge his presence in the vicinity. He watched as she dragged her fingertip along the rough surface of the desk, her hand supporting her chin, while her right hand kept tracing those senseless circles, around and around, around and around . . .

"I see you're quite busy here; perhaps I should come again later when you're done?" he joked and his words hit home—his presence was finally noted and with a decent amount of indignity on his friend's account. Over the short time he had known this fascinating person before him, Yamcha had subtly become very fond of drawing her complete undivided attention to himself and was especially pleased to know he had struck a cord when her cheeks adorned with a rose tint.

"What do you want?" Her voice and words were a bit more offensive than she had intended but she oddly found herself not caring much at the moment. Usually she would consider her new friend's feelings first and the way he could react to her characteristic cynicism and biting remarks but, at current point in time, she could hardly force her mind to consider the feelings of anyone who had dared pull her out of her own hectic masochistic little world.

To her luck or misfortune, the scarred boy seemed quite unfazed with her remark. His grin intact, he grabbed the wrist which wasn't supporting her head and pulled the girl to her feet, much to her surprise and dismay. Once she had recovered from her initial shock, the cobalt eyes glared poisonous daggers at the physicist.

"Just what the hell are you doing?" she snapped and had the full intention to free her hand but had no time to execute her plans as the boy proceeded with dragging her across the room towards the door.

"Your friends are already downstairs for lunch. God knows you can use some." He smiled as he motioned to her slimming waistline. Flushing with anger, Bulma made another effort to free herself of his grip.

"The fact you're my friend does not give you a right to prod into my personal affairs! When and what I eat is absolutely none of your concern!" She clenched her hands into fists, her unfiled nails making small crescent-like marks in her skin. "Are you even listening to me, Yamcha?" she hissed while they descended the stairs.

"You're right, none of the things you mentioned are any of my business," he admitted with an apologetic grin.

"You're still holding my hand and pulling me down these stairs though," she pointed out the obvious fact as if he didn't see that himself.

"However, I'm quite antagonistic to your gang's 'let's leave her be and let her cope with her own worries herself' strategy. I know that all of us need to deal with their inner demons sooner or later but I don't think leaving someone drown in their misery is the right course of action."

They were now in front of the cafeteria's glass doors with Yamcha pushing Bulma forward by her back, much like children do. With an inaudible groan Bulma turned around to face Yamcha, her arms crossed over her chest as she glared at him with an air of finality, her stance speaking for itself—she wasn't going in there, she was not hungry and would not eat. She inhaled and opened her mouth, but Yamcha beat her to it.

"I know it isn't any of my concern. But is it not my duty as a friend to worry over you and your health?"

His words seemed to make the girl freeze in her tracks of pure stubbornness. It had been forever since she had heard someone was worried about her. Someone was actually worried about her . . . The concept could barely make it through her skull . . .

Over the past few weeks, she had become so engrossed in her own internal little world of pain and betrayal. She had been replaying that dreadful day that Vegeta had broken her heart without so much as flinching that she felt as if her insides had turned to stone in the agony. When she was alone, she could barely move a muscle. It was a scar that ran very deep, the words the callous teenager had said enclosing her mind in a possessive, cruel grip, restricting all her emotions and perceptions. In the dark, she would stare at the ceiling, comprehending all the things that were wrong with her, all the things that did not satisfy that selfish person she had so hopelessly fallen for. She would sit in the dark, slumped against her bedpost, cursing her screwed up mind for making her fall in love with an illusion of a person . . . A person whose real character had taken everything he could from her.

And yet, during the day, she would come to school where this boy would give her everything her wounded soul needed. When she was with Yamcha, he showed her all the affection and devotion she had needed her entire childhood but had never had. It was a cruel irony that she had not seen him first, that she had not fallen for him on her first day in high school. Things could have certainly been a lot different . . .

While Yamcha was around, she felt alive again. She could laugh, smile, feel the fire that burnt within her, that character that she had long forgotten as she had buried herself in a daydream land of tainted infatuations and unachievable goals . . . She owed so much to him yet he wanted nothing in return, claiming her smile was all the gratitude he needed. God, she needed him. She needed him around in her hollow, intimidating home. She needed the sunshine that he brought with him, that childlike happiness that his innocent features supposed.

"I have no clue what you have been punishing yourself for over the entire short-lived time I have known you . . ." He reached with his hand to touch the darkened skin under her eyes. "But I don't think whatever it is it is worth all those sleepless nights you spent by yourself in that enormous lonely room."

Lonely . . . yes; that was exactly how she felt. In fact, it was the only thing to which she was accustomed and she abhorred more than anything else. She was obviously cursed to be alone, forever drowning in the shadow of her own incompetence, of her own incompletion that made her so unlovable.

Before she could submerge into another fit of self-loathing, Yamcha's hand cupped her chin and lifted her eyes to lock with his. She couldn't miss his concerned look for the world and in a second she felt like hanging herself on his neck and pleading him to remove this torment, this mental pain that suffocated her, that oppressed her . . . but she resisted it and instead listened to what he asked of her.

"So . . . please come and try to eat with me?"

For a brief moment she seemed to contemplate the notion. Then she stared into the deep pools of obsidian and she knew immediately what the answer would be. What was she doing . . . What in goodness' sake was she doing? God forbid she was getting more and more revolting with each passing second. What was she doing, making such a radiant person adopt such a worry-worn expression.

Her face changed to a playful little smile as she turned on her heel and marched inside the canteen.

"I'll say . . . I must really get a grip on myself or you might start thinking that you can easily boss me around!" she said to him over her shoulder as he pushed through the glass doors after her. "I might start thinking I'm wearing off on you."

Yamcha's grin sent a wave of easiness over her.

"I think I'll leave the bossing around to the professional," he commented while the two of them joined the food queue.

"What did you just call me?" She turned around and hit him lightly on the shoulder. He laughed. She smiled. How was it that one person could make her world so colourful in just an instant?

In the short distance, several pairs of eyes were set on the joyous couple, the looks in their gazes showing anything but content with what they were seeing . . .

Juuhachigou slurped her juice through the thin straw as she watched Wonder Girl and Scar push each other around like children.

"I'm not sure whether I like where this is heading or not . . ." she murmured so that her friends sitting on the table around her were the only ones to hear. All their gazes were pinned to the same thing she was watching so intently.

"I think you guys are judging Yamcha too severely," Krillin said with a strange smile. "Perhaps you should have a little more faith in him."

"Yamcha is the one thing I can never put any trust in," ChiChi interjected while she bit on her home-made sandwich.

Vegeta, on the other hand, didn't say anything. He was brooding in the corner, watching as the filthy rat touched the woman's shoulders, pulled the woman's arm and rubbed his filthy body against her. There was a touch of insanity in those dark onyx depths while they took in the sight of the pair. The sight was simply sickening—he felt the urge to either vomit or beat that shit senseless . . . The latter, of course, sounding much more appealing. Before he could submerge into any more diabolical thoughts though, the two decided that they should join the group, much to everyone's dismay . . .

Bulma, of course, no one minded—for the short time she had been with them she had easily fit in with them. Her strangeness level, as Krillin had once put it just to amuse the heiress, seemed to match theirs perfectly. Yamcha, however, was an entirely different story . . .

Although she had promised, the marine-haired girl couldn't help her spirits dampening when she joined the table on which the reason for all her torment was seated. Her eyes grew dull and she was engulfed in her thoughts once again. That did not go unnoticed by her friends, who had meanwhile been pretending to be engrossed in a serious conversation, or by her companion.

"Bulma?" he probed quietly, receiving no response from the girl who was currently busying herself with picking on her food. Vegeta's brows furrowed.

'You don't know when to quit, do you dipshit?' the dark male thought, his teeth grinding more angrily as he chewed his food than before the pair's arrival. 'Maybe she just doesn't want to talk to you!' It was odd how strongly he felt the urge to launch himself forward and choke the little bastard, just for the fun of it. What the damn little imbecile said next, though, he had never expected, as had no one else on the table.

"Go out with me, Bulma," Yamcha blurted out suddenly, gaining the thoughtful girl's attention. The rest of the occupants of the table were silent, watching in wonder what the girl's retort would be. Bulma, on the other hand, couldn't help her eye brows narrowing in annoyance.

"We just got here and you want to go out already?" She didn't believe this guy—he was impossible! First he wanted her to sit down and eat and now he was rushing her in walking aimlessly around! Well, she would be damned if there was a more unreasonable person in the whole wide world than—

"I mean 'go out with me' as in be my girlfriend," he clarified casually, as if it was the most natural thing on Earth.

—him . . .

The whole area around her seemed to have been muted by a huge remote control. A silence so complete fell over the table and its occupants that it felt like she had lost her hearing in an instant.

Bulma was dumbstruck. She wasn't sure how to react. She wasn't sure how to answer. Damn it, she couldn't even grasp the concept of what was going on! Was she dreaming? Had she really just heard what she thought she had?

Vegeta's eyes were wide, as were all of his friends'. He was thankful for their diversion as it would have been bad for them to see the rage that burnt in his onyx pools, although none of it showed on his face. Before he could comprehend what was happening though, the woman's mouth had already betrayed him.

She was all smiles as she threw herself on Yamcha neck, repeating, "Yes, yes, of course I would be!" over and over again like an insane mantra . . . a mantra that obliterated what remains of sanity the spiky haired teenager had.

Now, two weeks later, Vegeta and the gang were harvesting the fruits of the union. And now that Yamcha officially had a right to be with Bulma, he barely let her breathe, or at least that was how the gang saw it. He stuck around twenty-four seven. It was terrible pest to be quite frank . . .

Bulma, on the other hand, had never felt any worse. And do not make the mistake that it was Yamcha's fault—it was all purely psychological. When she was with her boyfriend, his radiance affected her greatly, washed away all her fears, all her regrets, chased away all her demons back to their murky shadows. However, once he was gone, they would crawl out of their holes, taking over her in an even more malicious way. When Yamcha was gone, she would suffer tenfold more than before, tormented not by dread, regret but by guilt as well.

She was using the boy, it was clearer than a day. He was so caring, so selfless with her. He gave her everything and wanted nothing in return. She wanted to pay him back for his generosity, for his kindness, in a way that would please him . . . but she just couldn't . . . She could buy him anything he liked. Absolutely anything! It wasn't as if a six digit purchase would be much of a difference with her latest project selling out so well. Nevertheless, whenever she brought it up he would get nervous and change the subject immediately. She had no idea what to make of it but knew better than to push it.

And still the problem prevailed. She would make use of him while he was around and think of that manipulating bastard when he was not . . . Did she still crave for the spiky haired asshole, she wondered . . . No one was that stupid, right? No one could become that disgusting, right? No one could have that little self-respect, regardless of their past . . . right?

"Bulma?" she heard a probing voice reach her. She shook her head slightly and looked up into the onyx pools of her boyfriend. He was making that worried expression again. She hated seeing him like that. It made her feel even filthier for corrupting such a pure creature as him with things like worry, doubt . . . or even, God forbid, pain. "Is everything okay? You were spacing out." His eye brows furrowed. "You seem to be doing that a lot lately . . ."

"I'm just a little tired is all . . ." She tried to give a reassuring smile that was anything but reassuring. Yamcha's frown deepened.

It was true though . . . She was terribly tired. She was even thinner than she was, what with all those restless nights and all . . . Whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see in the darkness of the back of her eye lids was that traitor's face . . . tormenting her, mocking her, taunting her . . . Whenever she listened to the complete silence of her spacious void room, all she could hear were the little voices in her head, whispering viciously, "Liar!", "Manipulator!", "Dirty whore!" . . .

She depended on her boyfriend now too much . . . When he wasn't around, she couldn't calm herself down enough to fall asleep. It was one of the main reasons for the increased frequency of his visits at home for a sleepover. He didn't seem to mind though—it was as though every moment he spent with her gave him even more of this endless energy of his. She was thankful for that . . . When he was happy, she was happy too . . . and however romantic it might have sounded from anyone else but her, she knew nothing would come out of their relationship. She was as unlovable as ever, unable to give anything to anybody but she and she couldn't even help herself . . . It was pathetic, what she had become . . .

And still this boy insistently was still together with her, supporting her when she needed it, making her day brighter whenever another weird idea popped up in his mind, making her laugh and feel like a person again for the evanescent moments, it seemed to her, that they were together . . .

"Well . . . alright, if you're sure . . ." He didn't sound much convinced by her reassuring smile either, but decided not to push her. Instead, he grinned as he remembered what he had had to say in the first place. "How about tonight I come to your place and we watch this movie you said you had been craving to see, huh?"

"I thought you said you couldn't find it anywhere . . ." She looked out of it but he could still see the hope burning in her eyes. He knew how much she loved this movie and he had tried especially hard to find it for her.

"Well, let's just say there isn't anything you can't do when you use your internal ties a bit." He winked devilishly at her. But when she hugged him tight he was a bit taken aback. Usually she was a very composed and reserved person, always keeping her thoughts and feelings to herself, never telling him anything . . . Therefore this outright show of affection was quite new to him.

To be honest, Yamcha had never had a relationship which was founded on something other than physical attraction. Hell, he had not yet even kissed Bulma, and was still terribly attached to her. It was so weird . . . It wasn't as if she wasn't attractive, of course! She just wasn't as much of a looker like all those other girls had been . . . With her, he felt like he could become a better person, erase all those horrible things he had done before, all those hearts he had broken mercilessly, without even thinking about it . . . Now all of his past attacked him, making him redeem himself through this wounded, lonely girl.

When he had first seen her, he had thought that it had to be a joke. Someone as small and closed off to the world as her being a genius? Sure, she was a Briefs, but genius doesn't always run in the family. And then he had seen that sad face she made. No one else had seemed to notice it; no one seemed to want to fix that broken expression. It was then that he had known it—he wanted to make her smile and protect that smile. There was little that he wasn't ready to give up in order doing so . . . and with every passing day he spent by her side the amount of those things receded more and more . . .

Some of his friends even joked . . . he never laughed at it but just smiled to himself whenever he heard it . . .

Yamcha, my man! It's almost as if you're falling for that girl, I'm getting worried!

Yeah . . . almost as if he was falling for that girl . . .

You're a terrible person.

I know that . . . I know it . . . And yet I never tell him to stop . . . I never push him away . . . Not when he hugs me, saying it's all going to be alright when I wake him up at night with my nightmares . . . Not when he comes around every day, doing this and that for me . . . Not when he organizes things for us to do that only real couples do . . .

You're no better than Him.

That's true . . . It's entirely true . . . But still I can't give up Yamcha. I need Yamcha. And Yamcha needs me. Is that so terrible? Is that so unacceptable?

No one needs you because no one wants to have anything to do with such a selfish person.

Is that selfish? Is trying to rejuvenate so selfish? Is trying to become a better person so terribly selfish?

You have reached a new level of low, woman.

Yes, I have, haven't I . . . I pity myself . . . I despise myself . . . I'm revolted by myself . . . Everyone should hate me . . . Everyone should avoid me . . . I should be placed somewhere where no one can go, where no one can be affected by my dirtiness . . . Yes . . . I don't want to taint any more people . . . I can't taint any more people . . . I have to go away, I have to hide this monster that I am, somewhere far away . . . Somewhere no one can find me . . . Somewhere no one can hear me . . .

You're disgusting.

Somewhere no one will hear me scream his name . . . Somewhere no one will see me lose myself . . . Somewhere I can die alone, writhe to death in my selfish consciousness . . . Somewhere I can cry rivers for the hell that rages inside me . . . Somewhere only for me . . .

You're damaged.

I am . . . I don't know what love is . . . I don't understand Yamcha's feelings for me . . . I don't understand his unselfishness . . . Why? Why does he do all those wonderful things for a filthy whore like me? Why does he have such compassion for a loser like me? How can he be so devoted to something so unholy like me?

You're disgusting . . .

"Bulma!"

The hand on my shoulder made me jump and raised me from the desk. I tried to comprehend what went on and then my hands instinctively shot to my tear-stricken face . . . only to find it perfectly dry. In fact, I realized with a taut frown, perhaps a bit drier than I would have liked it to be. Only after doing so did I glance at the intruder who had cut short my little schizophrenic conversation. Juuhachigou raised a skeptical eye brow at me before grabbing my hand and dragging me to an unknown destination.

"Bulma, you've been really weird lately." She looked accusingly at me. "We're all getting really worried about you and you don't even want to talk to anyone about whatever is bothering you. That's really unhealthy, you know."

"Tell me about it . . ." I muttered to myself and looked at the desk she was sitting on. How was I supposed to tell her about this? She would surely hate me after I do . . . I don't want to lose her. I don't want to lose any of my friends! I need them! I need them dearly! How am I going to go back to being that lonely me after this? I have already lost the dream that protected me from the harsh realities. I can't go back to the shadows now that I've had a taste of reality, of friendship and companionship . . . I know I'm going to lose them . . . I'm sure I will because I'm disgusting . . . because I'm tainted and pitiful . . . because I'm a mess and a monster . . . I'm so selfish and conceited . . .

"Your eyes are welling up even now." Juuhachigou's patronizing look changed into one of worry. "I'm sure that if you tell me you're going to feel better. It's one of those little things that make us human." She tried to give an encouraging smile but it came up absolutely wrong. I laughed and put on this reassuring face I had been practicing lately. No one saw through it, no one saw the real me behind it . . . because the real me is a disgusting, twisted creature that should writhe in agony . . .

"You guys see things that aren't real. I'm doing fine! I'm just a bit short on sleep is all."

"That crap might work on your imbecile of a boyfriend but it does not work on me." Juuhachigou glared heatedly at me, provoking me to tell her the truth. Instead, I used the opening to change the topic.

"Don't call him names! He's a wonderful person!" Much better than YOU will ever be, the little voice in the back of my mind told me, making me pause a bit. "I don't want you talking bad about him . . . and although I know I can't change your opinion of him, please don't speak badly of him in front of me . . . I really hold Yamcha in highest regard currently . . . He means everything to me . . ." Disgusting hypocrite . . .

"Okay, okay, I'll shut up; just don't give me that depressed look because it depresses me too." She gave that smile again but this time it affected me too. I smiled back.

That day came out to be a terribly cold and windy one. The sky was somber, the clouds were incredibly thick and the raindrops fell like tiny spears from the heavens, piercing the skin with their merciless coldness.

Bulma stared vacuously ahead just like any other day. Although this time she was shivering. Her blouse was thin because the day had begun with a brightly shining sun—or at least as brightly as an autumn sun could shine. She had even volunteered not to take a jacket with her. It was hell to pay now.

Her skin was covered with goosebumps, her teeth were chattering and her limbs were shaking while she crossed her arms in what looked like a regular stance but was actually done in an attempt to warm her body. It was to no avail—it served as little help when the gale brushed past her. She squeezed her eyes shut wondering why the forces had to punish her this way, in such a pitiful situation with the person she least wanted there in that moment.

Vegeta was usually the only person to wait on the same bus stop from school with her. Today he was standing a good several feet from her, turning his head to look at her every now and then. It annoyed the—or at least what remained of them—living daylights out of her. That bastard . . . she hated him so much! He didn't have a right to look at her! He didn't even have a right to be around her! She didn't want him there! She didn't want him to look at her!

She didn't want him to see how weak she actually was . . . she didn't want his protruding gaze to look at her and see how devastated she actually felt with the entire affair . . . But most of all she didn't want him to see how much she needed him, how much she wanted him still, after all he had done to her . . . she didn't want him to know how disgusting she was because it would destroy what little respect he had for her . . .

The minutes were passing and the buses were still not coming. The skin of her lips was now reaching an alarming purple colour. Then he noticed that his bus is accelerating towards the stop but hers was nowhere to be found. It would probably be some five minutes more before she even got on her way home . . .

"You're really stupid; you know that?" he muttered as he took off his jacket and put it on her shoulders, sidestepping her to get on the bus afterwards.

And the next moment, he was gone, leaving a stunned blue-haired heiress clutching the front of the jacket closed with her hands in order to preserve her warmth . . .

I couldn't stop thinking about it the entire way home. He had . . . he actually gave me his jacket . . . He gave me his jacket because he saw how cold I was . . . He gave me his jacket . . . because he cared that I was cold . . . because he was annoyed with me . . .

It was a thin jacket. It did nothing against the rain but it definitely helped me keep myself warm on the way home. And most importantly, it smelled like him . . .

I felt like he was there, his arms around me the entire time . . . His intoxicating scent was all over the garment, making it rain harder in my head than the weather outside . . . I was so disgusting . . .

The littlest things he did affected me so greatly . . . I was so content with thinking he was just as selfish as I am. I was absolutely fine when thinking he cared none of me. I was doing so well with assuring myself that he didn't care what would happen to me, that his wouldn't bat an eyelash even if someone killed me before his very eyes. I'm pathetic . . . my resolve is so easy to break . . . I'm so revoltingly pathetic . . .

I barely heard Yamcha talking to me as I entered the house. He was excusing for not being there with me on the bus stop but he needed to make things ready for our night tonight. Yamcha . . . the person I was using . . . apologizing to me, for every little thing when I should be the one to cry and beg for his forgiveness . . . I, who had betrayed what little trust he had in me . . . a dirty little doll he seemed to care so much for . . .

How is it possible for a human being to be so monstrous? I looked into his eyes and his gaze betrayed the confusion he felt with my silence. Then he noticed the jacket and asked whose it was. I couldn't help myself—I sobbed and let go of the garment, ignoring it as it collapsed on the floor. Yamcha raised a questioning eye brow at me, asking if everything was alright.

How could I tell him nothing was alright? How could I tell him that I could never return the feelings he had for me? How was I supposed to disappoint him? How was I supposed to kill his hopes and dreams just like mine had been shattered? How was I supposed to tell him that I had betrayed him so brutally? How was I supposed to tell him that I am just a filthy little whore? How was I supposed to tell him that I was just using him to suit my whim? How was I supposed to tell him that I loved Vegeta before I had even known him? How was he supposed to respect a person like me? How was I supposed to explain to him what I felt whenever I was alone? How was I supposed to put years upon years of mental torment into words? How was I supposed to tell him how hurt I felt? How was I supposed to tell him how disgusted with myself I felt? How was I supposed to explain to him the feeling of wanting to strip away your skin and the sins you have committed? How was I supposed to make him understand what a monster I am? How was I supposed to tell him nothing would ever be alright?

And, before I knew it, he was holding me in his arms while I wailed in anguish, tears cascading down my eyes endlessly.

For the first time since this hollowness had engulfed me, I cried . . .

I am terribly, terribly sorry for the lateness of this update. I would be thankful if anyone is still reading this. It was too late that I noticed what was blocking my muse—I didn't like the previous fifth chapter. That's why I removed it and redid it with a different thought in mind. I hope that this time you'll like it. I was wondering whether or not I should stop writing completely—I really, really had absolutely no muse. But I really love you guys and I had promised to finish my fics… I will feel that I have a right to retreat only when I finish them all.

I will probably have very irregular updates now that there are just two months and a half until the most important exam in my school year. I'm taking the CPE ESOL examination and it's horribly difficult now that I've lost my touch. I hope that you still want to read this though because if you do, all my muse will come back to me and I have some good ideas of how to continue this story.

I hope you forgive me and I hope that I managed to convey Bulma's feelings in this chapter. It's very hypocritical to ask you this…but please find it in you to review…please?