CHERRY FLAVOURED || Re-Write

THREE

You were anxious to find out why Spencer wanted to meet at a diner. Meeting at diners meant you would need to conversate, and you never did such a thing. The only interactions you have held with Spencer have consisted of shouting, or obvious glares–all his–across the room. It was never to have a formal conversation about whether you were a cat or dog person, or if you enjoyed ranch with your pizza.

You didn't want to speak to him, even though hearing his reasons as to why someone so innocent could hate someone as innocent as you, too. You were both the angels of the group: always smiling, completing just the right amount of work, taking stacks of paperwork from your co-workers to lighten the load. You did everything you were told, and if it wasn't perfect, you would do it over. It was strange how you loathed one another. There were a multitude of similarities between the two of you...

You looked down at your phone, at the blankness of it minus the bold message printed on your screen: Hey, it's Spencer. We need to talk. Meet me tomorrow in Lydia's Diner at 10 o'clock. It seemed as though he was yelling at you–a curse word after every word. You continued staring the night before, and the morning of, and up to an hour before, where you lied on your bed, staring at the ceiling in hopes that he was only joking.

However, Spencer never joked. Spencer didn't quite know how to joke around, it was unlike him to do so. Therefore, you had to get up. Meeting him was no joke on his itinerary, which meant getting ready and driving up to the diner was a serious game.

You lifted yourself off your bed and scurried into the bathroom. The tile was piercing the balls of your feet, pinching your toes as you entered the shower. You were tired and hungry and all you wanted to do was sink into the cold tile of your shower and turn into a water droplet. If that were possible, you would have become it years ago.

You rid your body of your clothes and turned the shower on. As the water heated, you looked at yourself in the mirror: a blank space with nothing but moles and freckles of your mother and father littering your skin. Your skin was a light tan; it was the winter months. On a typical summer day, you would be darker like the sun only chose you to bathe. During the winter months, you could see the blue veins on the inside of your forearms, and your eye bags were far too prominent for the best of you.

You run your hands down your hair, feeling the copious amount of gel between your curls. There are loose and tight curls between your head of hair, and the dark shade of brown does little to nothing to conceal the variety of textures. You look a mess staring into the mirror, and you begin to wonder that maybe the reason Spencer hates you is because it truly is difficult to look at someone who looks like the woman in the mirror.

You have never been ashamed of yourself. You have never been lost, even when you were bullied for your skin within the sea of white children in elementary school, or when people questioned your ability to perform tasks due to your gender. You always knew who you were, but Spencer began nudging your confidence with his large and stupid nose. It was pushing you away from what you built and that was another reason added to the list of why you hated him.

You reach the lower half of your stomach where fat has accumulated. There are stretch marks in different shades of brown and white and blue. The miniature blob of skin following your midriff has become floppy over the years, as one could best describe. You were no longer as fit as you were when you entered the BAU. Of course that comes with age, but albeit running and drinking water and trying to cut out on sweets, the patch of stomach has yet to diminish.

Your eyes flit from your stomach to your breasts: small, yet scribbled with more marks from when you began experiencing maturity. You've never hated them whatsoever, but you get to thinking... What if one day Spencer held them in his palm, massaged them, and thought, 'They aren't big enough, and why are your nipples this large and why, WHY, are there marks?'