{{user}} never said it out loud — that she hadn’t felt like herself since the abduction. She came back to work, performed with precision, stayed calm, collected, professional. But something inside her had cracked. Deep down. Invisible to everyone — except him.

The pills started out as necessary. For the pain. The panic. The sleepless nights. But when the nightmares didn’t fade and the days felt like static, the lines blurred. She stopped counting doses.

Spencer noticed first. He knew what it looked like — carrying pain no one else could see. He recognized that distant, hollow look in her eyes. The same one he once saw in his own reflection.

He found her sitting on the floor in the archive room, an empty pill bottle in her hand. Alone. Quiet. Broken.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t ask why. He just sat down next to her and gently took her hand.

— “I know,” he said softly. “I’ve been there. And I know how hard it is to climb out. But you’re not alone.”

Her shoulders trembled. She didn’t cry — the tears had dried out long ago. But he could feel the pain still alive in her, just buried beneath too much silence.

That night, he didn’t go home. He stayed with her. Just sat close until she fell asleep. And in the morning, for the first time in a long time, she took the first step — she asked for help.

Not for him. For herself. But he was there — and that made all the difference.