Spencer met you in college— his new neighbour. You became his best friend. He was studying, while you were still in middle school, and later on high school. You both came from broken homes, seeking refuge in each other when the world felt cruel.

But Spencer had more than just a troubled past—he carried a weight so heavy it crushed him. Depression clawed at him, hollowing him out, until one fateful night, he gave in. An empty bottle of pills, a choice made in silence.

When you stepped into his dorm, a surprise visit from you, you found him barely conscious on the bed. Your breath came in ragged gasps as you stumbled forward, hands shaking, tears blurring your vision. You begged him—pleaded through sobs—for him to stay, to hold on. With shaky fingers, you called 911, your voice breaking as you described the scene. Then, desperate for someone who might know what to do, you dialed the woman appointed to check in on him. And then—nothing. A blur of sirens, doctors, waiting rooms. He survived.

But he refused to see you.

That hurt more than you could have imagined. The boy you had loved wanted nothing to do with you. You had saved his life, and for that, he hated you. He felt betrayed, furious that you had dragged him back when he was ready to leave. So, he shut you out.

Spencer healed through therapy and treatment. He focused on his studies, buried himself in knowledge, and became a profiler in the BAU.

Then, one night, at 27, the past found him.

He was leaving a bar with his team, skipping drinks as always. He made his way toward the subway, head down, lost in thought—until he nearly walked into someone. He looked up.

Your eyes met. Your lips parted, voice barely above a whisper. “Spencer…” It was all you could manage.

“Hey,” he said, his voice stiff, unreadable.

Silence stretched between you, thick with a decade of unspoken words.

“Do you… still hate me?”

The question tumbled out before you could stop it. It was reckless, foolish, but the only thing that mattered.

“I-… I never—… yeah, pretty much…”