RUBATOSIS. spencer reid

| twenty

SPENCER REID.

I'VE BEEN REJECTED BY GIRLS
all my life. In middle school, I had a crush on a girl named Madalyn, and slipped a love letter into her locker. After school, I went there and his to see her reaction—she was with her friends, and they all laughed like it was some joke.

And then there was high school. Obviously, I was literally five years younger than the rest of my grade—yet somehow, I thought that Alexa Lisbon's confession to me was totally legit, and that this was my big break after years of getting harassed in high school. But again, it turned out to be a joke. Just like me, apparently.

It was always the pretty ones. The girls that had the most innocent and pristine faces—they coerce you into a level of attraction so deep that it was a bit absurd for a mere look at them. Pretty girls made me stupid. Pretty girls made everyone stupid.

Sylvia Connelly is a pretty girl. And I am the air-headed bimbo for thinking that she'd actually want me, the wacko skinny nerd who has nothing to flash around except for his body count.

We'd ignored each other for two years—why did I suddenly decide that wanting her was completely acceptable and achievable?

But the look of pure hatred and disgust on Sylvia's face the moment she jerked her lips off of mine—that look was absolutely mortifying. I could understand what she wanted to tell me just by looking in her eyes—she have to shove the knife deeper down my throat by telling me 'we could never be anything,' the look on her face said more than enough. Sylvia was always one to clarify herself and leave no questions unanswered—which was why she probably said it—but ouch.

No other word could describe the heavy feeling in my heart other than devastation.

And those harsh words replayed in my head over, and over, for the majority of the night. From across the room, I could hear Sylvia's soft breaths as she seemingly dozed off to sleep—at last—while I listened, hanging on to the sound of her. The room was so quiet but my thoughts were almost deafening.

I couldn't help but hang on to how perfectly our lips meshed together, like who pieces in a puzzle—I wasn't one for cheesy analogies like that, but there was no other way to describe it. It almost felt like...she was made for me. The way those soft and plump lips gave back two kisses for me—it made me feel so elated in that moment it was ridiculous.

But that was gone, and it hurt even reminiscing about it. It hurt even more realizing that I'll probably never get to feel that again in my lifetime. I'll never feel the heat between us and the way my body shuddered with one touch from her.

I mean, I can't remember the last time I felt like that with a woman touching me. And with an eidetic memory like mine, that was saying something. That was saying that I'd never felt like that before, because I'd definitely remember if I did.