So close and yet so far.

Isolated and yet surrounded by friendly faces.

You're here, they're here, but you cannot help but feel that the luxury of acceptance has thus far escaped you. That same sensation has haunted you all your life. Relationships don't last long, friendships form and then dwindle away and you, for the most part, do not mind a life of solitude. That scares you.

It makes you wonder if you are like him.

The man who raised you. And the man who murdered many other women in cold blood.

How could he be the same person? How can one man be a kind, caring, attentive Father, and then when he is far from his only daughter… Butcher innocent woman like it's nothing?

You constantly remind yourself that he isn't you. Who he was does not define who you are as a person. His actions, as vile and as deplorable as they were, should not condemn you and should not make people fear you.

But they do.

You keep it to yourself as much as possible for when someone does find out about your heritage, it destroys the connection. Trust falls away; eyes shift at the last second and refuse to look at you without seeing him, without seeing the mutilated bodies of his victims.

You remember their voices.

'How could she not have known?'

'How could her family not have known?'

'Why didn't he hurt her?'

'Why didn't she do something?'

People can be so cruel. But you suppose they have every right to wonder. They lavish blame upon your young shoulders and you cannot fault them for that.

Because for every ounce of blame they place on you, you have already tripled it yourself.

They are a close unit. They are more of a family actually. They protect each other. You know that should you be the one in need of protecting they wouldn't hesitate to help. But that doesn't make you feel anything in particular. Such an action would be borne out of a sense of duty, not out of friendship or love. You have witnessed them in action. You have monitored, observed and judged them all out in the field. Not maliciously, not even out of curiously, but simply because you want to learn from them. You want to some day be on their level.

Each and every one of them probably understands you more than you understand yourself.

When they look at you, it is as if they have the ability to gaze right into your soul. Every hidden feeling, desire, thought, worry… You feel like they can see it all magnified before their very eyes. Sometimes, you wonder just what it is they see, what the profile, when they look at you that way.

Agent Prentiss seems to have elected herself as your mentor. You don't mind, the older woman has a knack for making people feel comfortable around her. It truly is almost an honour to watch her interact with victims and their families. They all instantly warm to her, offer information up without hesitation, turn to her when they need to be comforted or just be told that yes, 'we're doing everything we possibly can' in that calm, authoritative voice.

But your favourite thing to watch Prentiss do is break down a subject. When she goes in for the kill you feel tremors down your spine with the thrill of it all. The woman can transform herself from caring and attentive comforter to the most terrifying, ball busting, truth seeking bundle of kick ass known to man kind.

The respect you have for her doubles and trebles and quadruples whenever you watch her interview an unsub.

But even Prentiss is a mystery to you, just like the rest of the team. They do not reveal themselves to you. They make references to things you cannot ever relate to because you were not present when they came to pass. They share knowing glances and inside jokes and that easy camaraderie that comes with just knowing people so well and for so long.

Often, you suspect Agent Rossi stills sees you as the little girl he once knew. And feels the need to offer protection and treat you as such.

Now and then, you catch a glimpse of a scar on Agent Reid's arms and you speculate as to how he acquired those odd little marks.

Sometimes, you witness Agent Hotchner rubbing distractedly at his chest, and you think maybe he has some scars of his own.

On occasion, you notice Agent Jareau glancing at pictures of a little boy on her phone and you wish you could ask how he's doing.

A time or two you have looked into Agent Morgan's eyes and saw nothing but sadness. A deep, profound sadness, masked by his charming grin.

And more often than not, you question just why Garcia feels the overwhelming need to wallow in the theatrical, the bright and the colorful.

So you wonder from afar. You learn at a distance.

And you hope to someday be regarded as an honorary member of this family unit.

It would sure as hell beat the 'family' you had before.