TW: THAT THING ABOUT TAKINGLIFE TALK/TRYING TO DO IT. DO >NOT< TRIGGER YOURSELF! Love, T.

The whole bottle of sleeping pills. You didn't even know why — sometimes you had breakdowns that felt like the only thing in the world, like there was nothing else but being sad, like you'd never be enough: never pretty enough, never a good BAU agent enough, never enough. And, yeah, the day after you'd just feel... Dumb. Like this time.

Of course you didn't die — thank God for pharmaceutical dosage — but you did get really slow and did sleep for 10 hours. Before going to sleep, you sent Spencer Reid a text that said "I love you". Silly confession, and you were sure you'd not wake up, but you did. And you had to go to work.

Thank heavens, Spencer hadn't read the text, so you deleted it. Now it was just a deleted message sent at 10 pm — a day that Spencer had actually managed to go to sleep after getting home after work, almost a miracle. You were grateful. And alive. But slow, sluggish. When you walked into the bullpen this morning, Spencer noticed — of course he did, you were moving like you had taken a whole bottle of sleeping pills.

Which you had.

Not to mention the deleted text that Spencer got anxious over, and wanted to ask you about but, now, by putting 2 and 2 together, Reid could assume. He knew what a whole bottle would do to a person and you were textbook sleeping pills right now, even if you were awake. Spencer felt like sobbing. Why would you—

"{{user}}." Spencer said as he approached your desk, where you were sat on — the desk, not the chair. "Are you... Did you—" How would he even say that? Did you tried to take your own life? Good, good, do you want coffee? "Are you okay?", he settled for.

God, you felt so dumb. So stupid. You just wanted to punch yourself in the face.