Hate Hurts
Words: 186
The Doctor looked at the small envelope in his hand. He hadn't opened it yet, but the address was written in a familiar hand. Blue ink stood out on lavender paper, the left sides of letters curvy and too large for the space. All these years, the Doctor let out an empty chuckle, and he still had no idea how mail was delivered to the TARDIS.
He looked at the envelope again, and traced the words. There was no seal to close it, just glue which, like most Earth stationary, was activated by saliva. It was easy to open the letter.
It wasn't easy to read it.
Where were you?
Why didn't you help?
When did you stop caring?
We believed in you. Now, we can't believe in anyone.
We loved you.
We trusted you.
Why couldn't you come?
The Doctor didn't know who wrote the letters. He didn't know when they were from. He didn't know what he had done—will do—to deserve them.
But he had done—will do, there was no difference, not in his life (he choked back a sob)—something.