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Island
Spencer observed people running, jogging, strolling, meandering, or walking along the sidewalk below his second-story apartment. The glass between his living room and the world outside was cold to the touch and a barrier more real than a thin sheet of melted sand.
Several cars passed by the building, and Spencer wondered where they were going. Were they commuting to work, running errands, going somewhere on dates? He didn't know, and why did it matter? His mother always said that speculating about other lives wasted time.
The sigh that escaped his lips was the loudest sound in the room. He'd finally returned home from another case. The blood, the waste of life, and the trauma left behind marked him. Gideon said that helping the victims made the job bearable, but Spencer wondered if he were right.
He looked down at the street, and the words of a favorite poem he'd once read shimmered up from the depths of his memory. John Doone had written that no man is an island, but Spencer didn't believe the sentiment had merit. Yes, all men and women are part of humanity, but what happens to them whom others ignore, or worse, toss aside like trash.
Spencer turned away from his window. He didn't want to think about the last year as part of the BAU. Spencer didn't want to feel the pain of the others socializing together and ignoring him because of his status as the resident genius, the nerd, the skinny guy who blushed every time JJ looked at him, the lonely young man who'd committed his mother to an institution. He didn't want to be the one without a father or the one with secrets no one would understand.
He tugged the curtains over his windows to keep out the sight of people hurrying about their lives with a purpose he envied. He had books and school to keep his mind sharp. Human contact – the tie that binds every island to the continent of the world – had to wait.