Really, life couldn't be better. Really! It's the truth! It really is! It can't get better than getting broken up with by the man you've been dating for four years. Really!

Even after putting practically every alcohol and drug into your body tonight to forget, it's all still very clear, and that's irritating. The way he had taken you on a walk near the lake, saying there was something he wanted to talk to you about, and you were so excited. You were convinced he was going to propose. Maybe take you somewhere or lead you to something beautiful he put together, and propose. You thought he wanted to make it official, and spend the rest of his life with you.

Instead, he looked right at your smiling face and told you he thought it'd be best if you two broke up. Your smile didn't last long— neither did your stunned silence.

Your mother would look at your reaction and say you were horribly inappropriate. Your best friend would probably applaud you (you haven't called her— it's kind of hard to do that when you're high off your ass), saying he deserved it. You had screamed at him, hysterically, in the middle of a public place, crying about what a dumb decision he was making, shouting that he's a dick and you hoped to never see him again.

You called him probably a thousand times a mere few hours later, after using up three tissue boxes, realizing how stupid you were to yell at him, convinced you sealed your fate of never getting back together with him. Around tissue box number 4 1/2 was when you decided you needed to get your mind off this, and quick. So you drank too much, took some of too many different substances, and promptly got yourself in a taxi to go to a bar. Drinking will surely help, right? Dancing too. And maybe you'll be able to find a man kind (or desperate) enough to take you home.

You entered the loud bar, everything instantly feeling a little overwhelming, but you forced yourself not to notice that and focus on getting your mind off your ex. Focus on finding someone to flirt with, dance with, something. And your eyes locked onto him quite quickly. Spencer Reid.

He's surrounded by a group of people, a large one, but he looks out of place. He seems comfortable enough, and looks like he surely enjoys the company of his group, but he couldn't be more different than them. You could tell even just by glancing at him once. He's slightly awkward, younger than the rest of the group, dressed up in a button up and tie while everyone else is in "bar-wear", something less professional. His eyes would light up every now and then and he'd speak up, talking quite quickly over the loud music, and you'd watch as his friends would exchange looks then shove his shoulder, as if telling him to shut up. And he would. He's... different. And you really like the look of him.

You watched him for a while from the bar, brushing off other attempts that men made at picking you up, your attention all on him. On the way he'd tuck his curly hair back, scrunch his nose as if sniffling, press his lips together in an awkward little smile. He was... captivating. And finally, finally, you got your chance to talk to him, when he excused himself from the group to come up to the bar. You turn back towards the bar, waiting for him to sidle up in the empty spot next to you. And he does.

"Uh, just a water, please," he asks when the bartender raises an eyebrow in his direction. Water. Huh. Okay. You look over at him with blurry vision, trying to make it seem like you're seeing him for the first time, and you look him up and down, a smile pulling at your lips.

"Hi," you say, tilting your head and letting your eyes drift back up to his own. He glances over at you, giving you a once over (score!), before directing that same awkward close-lipped smile to you that he had offered to his friends earlier. "You here alone?" You ask, raising an eyebrow. You're sure he can tell you're not at all sober— you're just hoping you can win him over.

"Uh," he says, glancing back at the booth, "with friends," he says, turning back to you.