Sailor

Stephie

I shot upright in bed, gasping for air like I'd been drowning. My heart was racing, and my skin was slick with sweat. The nightmare clung to me—blood, shadows, the screams. God, the screams. It felt so real. Too real.

I couldn't shake it.

I ran a hand over my face, trying to ground myself, but it wasn't working. Every part of me was still trapped in that room, reliving the case we'd just closed. That poor girl's face. I couldn't stop seeing it.

"Steph?" Spencer's voice was soft, groggy but instantly concerned. His hand found my back, gently rubbing in slow circles. "You're okay. I'm here."

I couldn't speak for a moment, just staring at the darkness of the room, willing my heartbeat to slow. I felt his arms wrap around me, pulling me close to his chest. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing instead of the chaos in my mind.

But the words spilled out before I could stop them.

"I can't do this anymore, Spence."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me. I could feel his eyes on me, searching my face in the dim light. "Stephie, it was just a nightmare."

"It's not just the nightmare," I said, my voice cracking. "It's... everything. Every case. Every victim. Every time I walk into another crime scene, it's like...I don't know. I'm not the same girl I used to be."

He was quiet for a moment, his hand still resting on my arm, steady and warm. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't think I can keep doing this job." The words tasted like defeat on my tongue, but they were true. "I want to resign. I need to resign."

Spencer didn't respond right away, but I could feel him shift, tightening his hold on me just a little, like he was afraid I'd slip away.

"You're not the same," he finally said, his voice low but certain. "You've been through hell, and it's changed you. But that doesn't make you any less strong or capable."

I shook my head, staring at the floor, the weight of it all crushing me. "I don't feel strong. I feel... broken."

He reached for my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. "Stephie, you're the strongest person I know. If you need to step away..."

"I do," I whispered. "I need to."

He kissed the top of my head, holding me close again. "Then you do. Whatever you need, I'm here." He admits even though I can tell deep down he wants to shout at me. He wants to yell at me not to give up on the job I worked so hard to have all those years in the academy.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I didn't stop them this time. I just let myself fall into his embrace, letting the weight of his words settle into me. I need to get out.

The next morning felt heavy, like the air was thick with the conversation we had left hanging in the dark. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling my hair back into a ponytail, my eyes hollow. The face staring back at me didn't feel like mine anymore.

Spencer leaned against the doorframe, watching me in silence for a moment before he spoke. "Stephie... have you thought about waiting? Just giving it a little more time?"

I didn't answer right away, reaching for my jacket instead. "I've thought about it long enough."

He pushed himself off the frame, walking over to me, his reflection now beside mine in the mirror. "I get it. The cases have been brutal lately, but... you're one of the best at what you do. If you leave, who's going to help the people we're fighting for? The ones like that girl yesterday?"

The mention of her stung, and I clenched my jaw, trying to keep the rising tide of emotion in check. "Someone else can handle it, Spence. I can't keep doing this."

He stepped closer, his hands resting gently on my shoulders. "Steph, you've always been able to handle it. This is just a bad run."

I shook my head, pulling away from him and grabbing my keys. "You don't understand."

"I do understand," he said, following me out of the room. His voice stayed calm, but I could hear the frustration creeping in. "But quitting? After everything you've worked for? You can't just walk away."

I stopped by the front door, turning to face him. "It's not walking away. It's... survival. I can't do this and stay sane, Spencer. You've seen what it's done to me."

He didn't say anything as we left the apartment and walked to the car. I could feel his eyes on me the whole time, the tension between us thick. I climbed into the passenger seat, letting him take the driver's side. The drive was quiet for a few minutes, only the hum of the engine filling the space.

Then, as we turned onto the highway, Spencer spoke up again. "You know, you're not alone in this. We all struggle, every single one of us. You don't have to carry the weight of every case by yourself."

I stared out the window, watching the trees blur by. "It's not just the cases, Spence. It's me. I'm not the same person anymore."

"You've changed, yeah," he said, his tone softer now. "But change isn't always bad. It means you've grown, you've adapted. You're still Stephie, just... stronger."

"Stop saying that, i'm sick of hearing it Spencer," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "I feel like I'm unraveling."

He let out a breath, one hand gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Maybe you just need a break. Take some time off. You don't have to quit."

I sighed. "It's not that simple."

He glanced over at me, his face serious. "No, it's not. But I don't want to see you give up on something you've dedicated your life to just because of a rough patch."

"It's not a patch, Spence. This is... I don't even know what this is. I just know I can't keep pretending like I'm okay." My voice cracked again, but I forced myself to hold it together. "I'm not who I was when I started this job. I don't even know if I want to be her anymore."

He was quiet after that, though I could feel him wrestling with what to say. As we pulled into the parking lot, I finally spoke again, my voice quieter now. "I'm not asking for your permission. I'm telling you what I need."

Spencer parked the car and turned to face me fully. "I know. I just... I want you to be sure. Because once you hand in that resignation, there's no going back."

I nodded, gripping the door handle. "I know. And I am sure."

I stepped out of the car before he could say anything else, closing the door behind me. His words echoed in my mind as we walked toward the building, but no matter how hard he tried, I knew deep down—this wasn't just a rough patch. This was the end. And I had to face it.

I stood in front of the elevator waiting for it to open when Spencer joined my side again, quiet this time. I stare at the letter in my hand, my formal letter of resignation. I pray to God to send me a sign, if this is the right thing to do JJ will wearing yellow today. If it's the wrong thing to do, she'll wear white.

"Steph," I cut him off before he can finish as we walk into the bullpen.

"Do not start again." I warn heading to my desk. I sit down and stare at the black screen of my computer, Spence takes his usual seat next to me.

"Good morning you two," I hear JJs voice coming around the corner from behind us and anxiety fills my stomach. As I look I'm met with defeat.

A yellow and white striped shirt is clinched to her torso.

You're joking me right now?

"Morning," I give a soft smile and put my head down, hoping to pass off as tired.

I look down at the letter again and then stand up. Spencer grabs my hand.

"Let me go." I whisper to him and he shakes his head, he thinks i'm making a mistake. I'm not. I pull my hand back and walk away. I hear Spencer start talking quietly, i see Derek standing near him seconds later.

I now stand  in front of Hotch's office door, my hands trembling slightly as I raised my fist to knock. The weight of the letter in my pocket felt heavier with every passing second. I didn't want to do this, but I knew I had to. After last night, after waking up in Spencer's arms and realizing I couldn't keep living like this, there was no other choice.

I took a deep breath and knocked.

"Come in," Hotch's voice called from the other side, calm and composed as always.

I stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind me. He was sitting at his desk, reviewing a case file, but as soon as he saw me, he set it aside. His sharp eyes immediately took in my expression—he knew something was off.

"Stephie, everything okay?" he asked, his tone more concerned than usual.

I didn't trust myself to speak right away, so I just pulled the letter from my pocket and handed it to him. His brow furrowed as he opened it and started reading.

For a moment, the room was silent. The ticking of the wall clock felt deafening.

When he looked up, his expression was unreadable. "You're resigning?"

I nodded, my throat tight. "I can't do it anymore, Hotch. I've tried, but... I'm not the same person I was when I started this job. It's taking too much out of me."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "You're one of the best profilers we have. You know that. You're not the only one who struggles with the weight of the cases."

"I know," I whispered, "but it's more than just the cases. It's me. I've lost myself somewhere along the way, and I don't know how to find her again. Every day feels like I'm barely holding on."

Hotch was silent for a moment, considering my words. His expression softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. "I'm not going to accept this. Not right now."

I blinked, surprised. "What?"

"You've been through a rough patch, Stephie. We all have. But quitting in the middle of it... that's not the answer." He stood up and walked around his desk, leaning against it as he looked down at me. "I'm not saying your feelings aren't valid. But I've seen agents walk away because of the stress, and most of the time, they regret it. You need time to think about this, not rush into a decision."

"Hotch..." I started, but he raised a hand to stop me.

"Listen. You've worked too hard, come too far, to give up now. You're part of this team for a reason. If you leave, who's going to replace you? Who's going to help those victims, those families?"

The guilt twisted in my chest again, and I looked down at the floor, my voice small. "I don't know."

He sighed and walked over to the window, staring out at the bullpen. "I understand the pressure you're under. The job takes more from us than we sometimes realize. But quitting? It's permanent. Once you walk away, there's no coming back easily."

I shifted on my feet, feeling the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. "I'm not saying I don't want to help people. But I can't keep doing it like this. The nightmares, the constant pressure... it's too much. I feel like I'm unraveling."

Hotch turned back to me, his gaze intense but understanding. "You don't have to make this decision today. What if instead of resigning, you take some time off? A break, to clear your head. Think about what you really want. If after that, you still want to leave, then we'll talk."

I frowned, considering his offer. It wasn't what I expected, but there was a part of me that didn't want to close the door on everything I'd worked for so suddenly. "A break?"

He nodded. "Take a few weeks, maybe longer. Get away from the job, the cases. And when you're ready, we'll sit down again, and you can tell me what you want to do."

It wasn't a bad idea, but I still felt torn. "And if I come back and I still want to quit?"

"I'll respect that decision. But I don't think you'll want to," Hotch said, his voice softer now. "You're too good at this job to walk away from it forever. But you need to give yourself the chance to decide when you're thinking clearly, not when you're in the middle of a crisis."

I let out a long breath, feeling the tension slowly start to unwind. He was right. I wasn't thinking clearly. I had been drowning in this for weeks, maybe even months, and quitting felt like the only way to breathe again. But maybe stepping back, just for a while, would give me the perspective I needed.

"Okay," I finally said, nodding. "I'll take the time off."

Hotch's expression softened into something close to relief. "Good. I think it's the right choice."

I stood up to leave, feeling a little lighter but still uncertain. Before I walked out, I turned back to him. "Thank you, Hotch."

He gave me a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Take care of yourself, Stephie. I'll be here when you're ready."

As I walked out of his office and back into the bullpen, Spencer looked up from his desk, that was now surround by most of the team. I didn't say anything, but the look on my face must have told him enough.

He stood up and walked over to me. "You didn't resign?"

I shook my head. "Not yet. Hotch convinced me to take some time off, to think about it."

Spencer's face softened, relief flooding his features. He reached for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'm glad."

I squeezed his hand back, feeling a little more grounded, like maybe there was still hope for me to figure all of this out.

"If you quit, I will die." Emily's voice comes up behind Spencer, I chuckle but her face is more serious.

"Stephie, I get you're going through a tough time but you cannot quit, you're too good to quit." Derek is right after her, followed by an entourage of Penelope, JJ and a confused Rossi.

I looked at them—Emily, Derek, Penelope, JJ, Rossi. Their faces were a mix of concern and determination. These were my people, my family, and seeing them rally around me like this stirred something deep inside.

"I don't know if I'm good anymore," I admitted, my voice soft, uncertain. "I don't even know who I am right now."

"You're Stephie," Emily said firmly, stepping forward. "You're the same woman who pulled me out of that hostage situation in Boston. The same woman who talks me down after every tough case, even when you're struggling yourself. You're the one who fights for every victim like they're family."

"You think that just goes away?" Derek added, crossing his arms. "No way. You're still that same fighter. You're just... tired. Burned out. And you have every right to be. But leaving? That's not you."

Penelope stepped in closer, her usual bubbly energy subdued but still hopeful. "You're not allowed to go anywhere. Who's going to make sure we all keep our heads on straight if you leave?"

JJ, in her yellow-and-white striped shirt, looked at me with a tenderness that tugged at my heart. "I know what you're feeling. I've been there. But you don't have to do it alone. We're here for you, and we'll help you through this. You don't have to make this decision right now."

"Nothing is final, I'm taking a leave of absence for a little bit. Try and figure out what I need to do." I give a slight smile to the crowd and they back off for the time being. After I finish today, i'm off for a while.

As I moved to my desk and started packing up my things, I couldn't help but feel the weight of everything pressing down on me—the cases, the sleepless nights, the faces of victims that haunted my dreams. This time off, it had to help. It had to give me some kind of clarity. Maybe I'd finally get the answers to the questions that had been swirling in my head for months now—questions I didn't even know how to ask out loud. What did I want? Could I keep doing this? Who was I, really, outside of the job?

I glanced over at Spencer, who was standing by the coffee station, absently stirring his cup, deep in thought. I knew this was hard for him too, watching me wrestle with something so personal and painful. He'd been my rock, but even he couldn't give me the answers I needed.

As I zipped up my bag, I heard a familiar shuffle of footsteps behind me. I didn't even need to turn around to know it was Rossi. He always had a way of showing up when you needed him most, even when you weren't ready to admit it.

"Kid," Rossi's voice broke the silence, low and filled with that trademark wisdom that had come from decades of experience. "You've been through the wringer. Hell, we all have." He leaned against the edge of my desk, his expression soft but steady, the weight of his words settling over me like a warm blanket. "But there's no shame in stepping back to take care of yourself."

I stopped what I was doing and looked up at him, my face unreadable, though inside I felt like I was barely holding it together. I knew he was right, but admitting that I needed to step away felt like admitting defeat. Like maybe I wasn't as strong as I thought I was, or as capable as everyone believed me to be.

Rossi caught the hesitation in my eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. "None of us will think less of you for it. You've done more than your share, Stephie. We've all seen it. Every case, every victim—you've put your heart and soul into this job. But you don't have to destroy yourself for it."

I bit my lip, struggling to hold back the wave of emotions threatening to spill over. He was saying everything I needed to hear, but it didn't make it any easier. How could I walk away from something that had defined me for so long? How could I admit that I wasn't okay?

Rossi's eyes softened further as he crouched down slightly to meet my gaze head-on. "Just know that if you leave," he said, his voice quieter now but just as steady, "it won't be because you aren't capable. It'll be because you need to heal. And that's okay, too. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is take a step back and say, 'I need help.' That's not weakness, kid. That's strength."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, but not in a bad way. It was like everything I'd been holding onto—the fear, the doubt, the shame—it all started to unravel. My chest tightened as I swallowed hard, blinking away the sting of tears.

"Rossi, I just—" I started, my voice breaking.

He shook his head, placing a firm but gentle hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to explain anything to me. I've been where you are. Maybe not the exact same situation, but I know what it feels like to be at the edge and wonder if you can keep going. You've done more than enough, Stephie. No one's expecting you to be invincible."

I nodded, finally letting some of the tension ease out of my body. He was right—again. There was no shame in needing time. No shame in needing to find myself outside of the job. I'd spent so long pretending I was fine, trying to live up to everyone's expectations—including my own—that I hadn't given myself permission to just be... human.

Rossi squeezed my shoulder before straightening up. "We've got your back. You take the time you need, however long that is. And when you're ready, whether it's to come back or to move on, we'll support you."

I let out a long breath, one I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Thanks, Rossi," I said quietly, my voice thick with emotion.

"Anytime, kid," he said with a small smile. Then, with one last nod, he turned and headed back toward the conference room, leaving me alone at my desk.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at my half-packed bag. The bullpen around me buzzed with the usual activity—phones ringing, agents typing, the hum of conversations blending into the background. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn't drowning in it. Rossi's words had anchored me, reminded me that it was okay to step away. That I wasn't failing anyone by needing time to heal.

The boat still floats without the sail.

I glanced over at Spencer again. He caught my eye, offering me a small, encouraging smile. I could tell he was proud of me for making this decision, even though I knew he was struggling with it too. He wanted me to stay, wanted things to go back to the way they were, but we both knew that wasn't possible—not right now.

I picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder. The weight of it felt different, lighter somehow. Maybe this break wouldn't give me all the answers I was looking for, but it was a start. I needed to find myself again, and maybe—just maybe—I could come back stronger.

As I walked toward the exit, Spencer joined me, his hand gently brushing against mine as we walked side by side. We didn't need to say anything; the silence between us was comfortable, understanding. He knew this was what I needed, and I knew he'd be there when I was ready.

But for now, it was time to take care of myself.

And that, I realized, was the bravest thing I could do.