Hello. My name is Dr. Spencer Reid, I have just turned 34 years old, and I am beginning to lose myself.

Last month, I found myself in the carport of my house, grasping onto the handle of my car and I couldn't bring myself to get in. I remember that part. I know that, eventually, I went to work, and I know that I was able to proceed as usual, but a man like me has to be aware of everything that happens inside his mind.

Then I began to withdraw. The act of speaking even the most important fact felt like a stuttering car engine in the back of my throat. Derek noticed. He checked on me, asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine, as always, but it hurt to come out. Like reverse-swallowing dry pills. He trusted me. He trusts me. He shouldn't trust me.

The prodromal stage is the most docile of the three. It's ultimately made up of attributes that all teenagers have; antisocial tendency, mild to medium traces of anxiety and depression. I'd studied all of this before, and luckily for me, it's something you can't forget. Not while I'm prodromal, anyways.

He doesn't know. He can't. If he did, I'd be dropped from the team, and my job is the only thing that inspires me to fight this. I'm inching into the active/acute phase with every stumble of my words. Sometimes I almost say incorrect statistics. But I can stop myself still.

The day that I let something incorrect slip is the day that I'll have to go home. Alone. And I can't... I can't let Derek worry. Not for me. He has enough to worry about, with his new family. With Hank. I thought at some point I had a chance with him, but as soon as I saw him look at her, I knew I had no place. If only I'd said something earlier, before my mind began to crumble, I could have convinced him to like me like that or something. If only that would work.

I still know my name, my age, my address. I know my mother's name and her birthday. I know where and when Jason Gideon was born and died. I know everything about Derek Morgan. But as the days progress, I lose more of myself. Every time I blink, I think of what this could have been. Maybe I could have been a Reid-Morgan with someone to come home to. He's leaving in a few days. Maybe I'll tell him before he leaves forever.

I could blame it on how I'm wasting away. Or I could just keep my mouth shut.

Mark Twain once said that it's better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all...