Killer Affair | Spencer Reid Short Story

Goodbye

Spencer

It's been three weeks, and every morning, I still expect to wake up and find her next to me. I lie there, staring at the empty space on the other side of the bed, waiting for her to come in, laughing, with some half-burned breakfast attempt. I even wake up reaching out for her, only to find cold sheets and silence. The emptiness is relentless. It's woven into every corner of my apartment, every memory I have of her.

The first few days, I went back to work. Pretended I could handle it. I tried to distract myself with paperwork, cold cases, tasks that didn't require emotion. But everything I did reminded me of her. It was like she'd left pieces of herself everywhere—her favorite coffee mug still on the counter, the blanket we used for movie nights folded neatly on the couch, an old recipe card covered in her handwriting. She's gone, but she's everywhere.

I walk to the couch, where the old blanket still sits. Gwen hated that blanket—called it scratchy and "horribly un-chic"—but she used it anyway because it was mine. I sit down, pulling it over my lap, feeling a ghost of her warmth beneath its worn fabric. I close my eyes, and in the quiet, I can almost hear her laugh, her voice teasing me for being such a "bookish, lovable mess."

I hate that I wasn't there for her in the end. She didn't let me in; she shut me out, thinking she was sparing me from... from seeing what she'd become. But the truth is, she didn't understand. I would have walked with her into whatever darkness she was facing. I would have stayed. But she didn't let me.

I think back to that final day. Seeing her strapped down, so much strength drained from her, all her edges stripped away. I could see the love she'd hidden, see the pain in her eyes. She tried to keep me out, tried to protect me, but it didn't matter. The moment I saw her, I was already broken. I think I always will be.

There's a stack of her books on the coffee table, ones she never finished. She'd always joked about never finding the time to read as much as me, always looking at me with that look in her eyes, like she'd be happier if she could just stay in one place, find some kind of normalcy. I reach out, running my fingers over the worn covers, remembering all the times she curled up next to me, her head on my shoulder, feet tucked under my leg, the way her lips would curve up as she read.

The team doesn't understand. They see it as another loss, another wound that will scab over with time. They don't realize that she's carved herself into me. Every memory I have of her is seared into my mind, a mixture of love and regret that I carry with me like a scar. They try to comfort me, but there's nothing anyone can say. There's nothing to fix this, no words that will bring her back, no way to undo everything that's happened.

I move to the kitchen, automatically grabbing her mug from the counter, pouring myself coffee like she used to make—strong, bitter, with a splash of cream, just enough to take the edge off. She always complained about how I drank mine, too sweet, too "weak," but she never missed the chance to sneak a sip, just to tease me.

And then, like a reflex, I start to talk. "Gwen," I say softly to the empty kitchen. I imagine her leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. "I'm sorry." The words feel hollow, a whisper into the void.

I sit down at the table, staring at her empty chair, feeling the weight of every unsaid thing between us. I want to yell at her, to ask her why she pushed me away, why she chose to bear the burden alone. But I know why. She wanted to protect me, to keep me safe from her darkness. In her own twisted way, she thought she was saving me.

"Gwen... you didn't have to do it alone," I whisper, my voice breaking. I feel the tears, hot and relentless, and I let them fall. I don't wipe them away; I just sit there, letting the grief wash over me. I loved her. I still do. And I can't hate her for what she did, for who she was. Because she's the only one who's ever made me feel alive, even as she took that life away from herself.