Echos of a Genius | Spencer Reid

Leaving Tonight

Stephie

It's been six months since I hit rock bottom—since everything shattered into a million pieces. Six months of staring at a version of myself I barely recognized, of picking up each jagged shard one by one. And six months of Spencer patiently waiting, always just a few steps behind, ready to catch me when I stumbled.

But I'm starting to see her now—the girl I used to be. Not exactly the same, maybe, but some parts of her are still there, buried under the weight of everything that happened. I'm learning to let those parts breathe again, to let them stretch out and fill the spaces that had been hollow for so long.

Spencer keeps telling me how strong I am. Sometimes I don't believe him. Other times, I almost do.

We've fallen into this routine, Spencer and me. On the good days, we laugh, we talk about the future like we used to, and I almost forget about the scars that run deeper than just my skin. On the bad days, when the nightmares return, pulling me back into the darkest corners of my mind, he's there. Always. He doesn't ask me to talk about it. He doesn't need to. He just holds me until I stop shaking, his steady heartbeat against my back grounding me in ways I can't explain. It's like he knows exactly how to pull me out of the fog without saying a word.

The first nightmare I had after everything—it was bad. Worse than anything I'd experienced before. I woke up gasping, my chest tight like I was suffocating, and the sheets were soaked with sweat. Spencer didn't even flinch. He just wrapped his arms around me, his hands gentle but firm, like I might break if he held me too hard. I wanted to cry, scream, anything to release the terror that still clung to me. But all I did was whisper, "I can't do this."

And he answered, "You don't have to do it alone."

Since then, it's been like that. Some nights, the nightmares come, but they don't destroy me like they used to. I wake up, my pulse racing, and Spencer's always there, pulling me back to the present before the fear can sink its claws too deep. It's like he's my anchor in this storm I'm still learning to navigate.

But it's not just Spencer. Over these months, I've started reconnecting with other things, too. Small things. The smell of rain. The sound of pages turning in a book. The way the wind feels on my face when I'm out on a run. At first, they felt foreign, like I was experiencing the world through a pane of glass. But now, I'm starting to feel them again. Really feel them.

I'm painting more now. I thought I'd lost the desire in college, but the brushes called to me one evening. I didn't try to paint what I used to—the detailed portraits, the vibrant landscapes. Instead, I let the colors blend into one another, abstract, chaotic. It felt... freeing. Like I wasn't trying to recreate anything, just letting it all pour out. Spencer always watches, never saying much, just sitting nearby with that soft, steady presence that I've come to rely on.

I know I'm not completely healed. The scars—inside and out—they're still there. And maybe they always will be. But I'm learning to live with them. To let them be part of who I am without letting them define me. It's like Emily said that night: sometimes you can't be the person you were. You have to find out who you are now.

And who I am now? I'm someone who's still standing, even after everything tried to knock me down. I'm someone who's learning to smile again, even if the smile feels different than it used to. I'm someone who wakes up in the middle of the night and knows, deep down, that I'm going to be okay, even if the fear still lingers for a while.

I'm not the girl I was before. I'm something new. Stronger. Wiser, maybe. And a little more broken. But I think that's okay. I think that's where the light gets in.