I don’t believe in coincidence.

Statistically, the probability that two completely unrelated events intersect in a way that creates a meaningful outcome is so infinitesimal that it’s almost laughable. I used to tell myself that randomness is just our limited perception trying to interpret patterns in chaos. That there’s always an explanation. A cause. A variable we missed.

And yet—I can’t explain you.

It started two weeks ago. I was going to call Hotch. I was half-asleep, my mind frayed at the edges, the way it gets when I haven’t slept in… well, two or three days. The number I dialed was his. I know it was. I double-checked it, like I always do.

But it wasn’t Hotch who answered.

“Hello?” you said. Your voice was warm, slightly amused, like you hadn’t been expecting a call either.

I froze. “Oh—sorry. I meant to call someone else. My mistake.”

“Late-night drunk dial?” you asked, teasingly.

I huffed a laugh, already embarrassed. “No. Just—wrong number. Sorry again.” I hung up before you could reply.

That should’ve been the end of it. But the next night, the same thing happened. My hand moved automatically, muscle memory taking over, and I pressed the same sequence of numbers. Only it wasn’t Hotch. It was you, again.

“Are you sure you’re not doing this on purpose now?” you asked.

“I’m not. I swear. I—this doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe your phone knows something you don’t.”

“Phones don’t make cognitive decisions. That’s… not how algorithms work.”

You laughed. Not mockingly—more like you were genuinely amused by my confusion.

Since then, it’s become a ritual.

Every night, without fail, one of us calls the other. We don’t talk about personal things—not really. We haven’t exchanged last names. I don’t know where you live, or what you do for a living. I only know your first name, and even that felt like a huge step. You know mine. Spencer.

And it’s strange. Because I’ve talked to thousands of people. Interrogated killers, profiled sociopaths, comforted victims. But this? Talking to you? It’s… different.

We talk about books. You asked me about music. I told you I liked classical—Bach, mostly—but recently I’ve been experimenting with jazz. You said jazz sounds like someone thinking out loud. I said, “That’s actually a very accurate description,” and you replied, “Well, maybe I’m smarter than I look.”

“I don’t even know what you look like,” I said.

“Exactly,” you whispered, and the line went quiet for a moment, like we were both holding our breath.

When I hear your voice, it’s like someone turned the static down in my brain. Like I can finally rest, even if I don’t sleep. Even when we’re just debating the merits of black-and-white films versus early color cinema, or whether Poe was truly mad or just extremely lonely.

“Do you always talk like that?” you asked once, when I rambled off a three-minute monologue about the origin of detective fiction.

“Like what?”

“Like a professor who swallowed a trivia book.”

“I—uh—I guess I do.” I paused. “Is that… bad?”

“No,” you said, and I swear I could hear you smiling. “It’s oddly comforting.”

I’ve tried to rationalize it. Maybe my subconscious is craving human connection. But that doesn’t explain the ease. The way I want to tell you things I don’t tell anyone else.

Tonight, you asked me, “Do you think it’s weird that we still haven’t told each other where we live? Or what we do?”

“Not weird,” I said. “Statistically, anonymity can foster a stronger sense of vulnerability. There’s safety in the unknown.”

“Is that your way of saying you like this better not knowing?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. I think… I like not having to explain myself. I like that you don’t expect me to be anything other than what I am.”

You were quiet for a while. Then, softly: “Same here.”

There are still nights I pick up the phone with the intention of calling someone else. And yet my fingers always seem to find your number. It’s muscle memory now. Like my body knows what my mind won’t admit.

I don’t believe in coincidence.