Iris' Matcha Cafe : Nevermind, You Were Never Mine
( ╹ -╹)? 𝗁𝖾𝗒𝗒!! 𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗒𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾!!! 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗂 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗃𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖺 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗈? 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖺𝖾𝗏𝖾?? 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗁𝖺. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌
(ᴗˬᴗ)ꕤ.ﾟ𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀! 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾! 🩷 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀:
𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 / 𝖧𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝖡𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝖲𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖲𝖺𝖽/𝖡𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖤𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀
pairing: spencer reid x reader
content warnings: mentions of death (maeve's)
Spencer Reid was a dream. The kind that makes you want to sleep forever just to stay in it. He didn't just love; he curated it. He was a man of all-out gestures, whether it was a hand-bound book of poetry he’d spent weeks researching or the way he looked at her as if she were the only person in a crowded room who mattered. On their third date, while they sat on a park bench under a canopy of autumn leaves, she’d watched him explain the physics of a falling leaf with such earnest passion that she felt a pang in her chest. How did God ever make a man so perfect? she wondered, but Spencer was a man of terrifying honesty. He didn't want a love built on secrets.
"I need to be upfront with you," he’d said that night, his fingers nervously tracing the edge of his coffee cup. "There is...was a woman. Her name was Maeve, and she’s gone, I can’t forget her."
At the time, she had reached across the table and taken his hand. "I don't want you to forget her, Spencer. I want to love the man she helped you become." It was a beautiful sentiment, but beauty is hard to maintain in the mundane light of Tuesday mornings. The ghost wasn't haunting the house with chains and screams; she haunted it with silence and shadows of what once was. There was the silver-framed photo on the third shelf of the bookcase, always kept dusted. There was the neon-yellow Post-it note stuck to the side of the fridge: M.D. 555-0199. It was a relic, paper turning brittle with age, but Spencer treated it like a holy text.
It began in the smallest moments. She would bring home a new documentary on the Space Race, excited to share it, only for Spencer’s face to soften into a distant, melancholy smile. "Oh, this is brilliant," he’d say, his voice trailing off. "Maeve and I used to debate the propulsion theories for hours. She always thought the Soviet approach was more pragmatic."
The we always meant them. Never us.
When she tried to read the classics he loved, she’d find her own notes in the margins, only to realize he wasn't looking at her annotations. He was looking at the way the spine was worn from someone else’s grip. She began to feel like a guest in a museum dedicated to a dead woman. No matter how much she loved him, and she loved him with a depth that terrified her, she was starting to realize that Spencer wasn't looking for a partner. He was looking for a replacement for a woman who was irreplaceable. She was the living, breathing woman in his arms, yet she felt more invisible than the ghost on the bookshelf.
Then came their first anniversary. She had spent months meticulously planning it, choosing a restaurant that had no history, no Maeve attached to it. A clean slate. A new memory. The reservation was for 6:00 PM. By 7:30 PM, the candlelight had burned down halfway, casting long, lonely shadows across the white linen. As the clock struck 8:00 PM, she didn't feel the anger she expected. She didn't feel the urge to scream or throw up her wine. Instead, a strange, cool wave of peace washed over her. The dream had finally ended, and for the first time in a year, she felt like she could breathe without inhaling someone else's perfume.
She stood up, ignoring the sympathetic glances from the couples at the next table. She didn't need to check her messages. She knew he wasn't in an accident. She knew he hadn't lost track of time. She walked out of the restaurant, the cool night air hitting her face like a reset button. She knew exactly where he was. He was where he had always been: stuck in a past she was finally leaving behind.
The drive to the cemetery was the quietest twenty minutes of her life. There was no radio, no humming heater, just the sound of her own steady breathing. She didn't feel like a woman scorned; she felt like a ghost herself, drifting through the iron gates toward the one place that had always held more of Spencer’s heart than their own apartment did. She found him exactly where she knew she would. He was a crumpled silhouette against the twilight, sitting on the damp grass with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He was staring at the granite headstone as if he were trying to pull a heartbeat out of the stone. She didn't try to be quiet. Her heels clicked against the paved path, a sharp, rhythmic intrusion on his sanctuary. "I thought I’d find you here," she said, her voice sounding unnervingly hollow in the open air.
Spencer jumped, snapping back to the present with a jagged breath. He looked up, his eyes blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the sight of her. His gaze wandered over her, the silk dress she’d bought just for tonight, the way her hair was pinned back, the pearls at her throat. She looked breathtaking, and in this setting, she looked entirely out of place. "Baby?" he stammered, his voice thick. "Where... where did you go? Why are you dressed like that?"
She didn't answer. She just offered him a small, sad smile that didn't reach her eyes. A cold pit formed in Spencer’s stomach, a physical weight that made his breath hitch. "Did I miss something?" he asked, his voice trembling with a sudden, desperate realization. "It’s... it’s not your birthday. I know it’s not your birthday."
She walked closer and sat down beside him on the cold earth, not caring that the grass was staining her expensive dress. She shook her head slowly. "Spencer," she whispered. "It’s our anniversary."
The silence that followed was deafening. She watched the color drain from his face, leaving him ghostly pale. "What?" His voice was a strangled wreck. "Oh my god... is it the sixteenth? Oh my god. Baby, I’m so sorry. I lost track... I just... please, let’s go. I’ll make it right. We can go now."
He scrambled to stand up, his hands reaching for hers, ready to fly away from his mistake. But she didn't move. She remained anchored to the ground, her eyes locking onto the headstone in front of them. "Sit down, Spence," she said, her voice terrifyingly calm.
"No, no, we have to go. I need to make it up to you. I’ll get us a table anywhere, I’ll—"
"Sit down." He sank back to the grass, his body shaking. That’s when the first tear fell. Then another. Within seconds, the pain she had been holding back for a year broke through. She wasn't sobbing; the tears were just falling, silent and relentless, mapping the heartbreak on her face. Spencer felt like his ribcage was collapsing. He had done this. He had looked into the sun for so long that he had let the person standing right next to him freeze.
"I’m sorry," he whispered, the words sounding pathetic even to him. "I am so, so sorry."
She just kept smiling through the salt on her lips. "There’s no need for that anymore, Spencer." She turned her gaze back to the stone. Maeve Donovan. The name felt like a physical barrier between them. "It’s weird to finally be able to look at this headstone," she mused, her voice drifting. "It’s a physical representation that she’s gone. It’s proof. She’s under there. She’s not in the kitchen. She’s not in the car. She’s not here."
She took a ragged breath that caught in her throat. "But why does it always feel like she’s the one in the way? Why is a woman who doesn't have a voice the only one you ever listen to?" She let out a short, bitter chuckle that felt like a physical blow to Spencer’s chest. He reached out to touch her, to pull her into a hug, but his arms felt like stone. He couldn't move. He didn't have the right to touch her anymore.
"When I got to the restaurant tonight," she continued, "I actually had hope. I thought, maybe today would be different. Maybe today would be about me. About us. I even placed post-its on your planner and the fridge, but then I looked at the date, and I realized... it’s the anniversary of her death, too. Of course, you'd remember that rather than a celebration of us, and I just thought, wow, lucky me. I can’t even have a day to celebrate loving you without it being a day where you’re mourning her."
The self-pity in her voice wasn't sharp; it was exhausted. It was the sound of someone who had finally stopped fighting a war they knew they were losing. " I never stood a chance, did I?"
"Every day, Spencer, I tried my best. I tried to be okay with sharing your heart. I told myself I was being 'mature' and 'understanding', but sitting in that restaurant alone, watching the candles burn out, I realized the truth." She finally looked up at him, her eyes so blurred with tears that he was just a smudge of shadow in her vision. "I never had a place in your heart to begin with, did I? There was no sharing. I was the ghost haunting the house she built. I never had you. It was all just a beautiful, cruel dream."
"Please," Spencer choked out, his own tears finally spilling over. "Please don't say that. You’re my life. I love you." She laughed then, a hollow, brittle sound that echoed off the surrounding graves. She stood up slowly, not bothering to dust the dirt from her silk skirt. She looked down at him one last time, and for the first time, there was no longing in her eyes. "I hope you find someone one day, Spencer. Someone you’re actually willing to fall all in for. Someone you can look at without wishing it was a different face."
He found the strength to stand, reaching out to catch her sleeve. "Please. Don't go."
She stopped and looked at his hand on her arm, then up at his face, his eyes pouring with a grief that was finally, for once, about her. She leaned in and kissed his cheek, a soft, final goodbye. "I love you, Spence," she whispered. "But I'm tired of being the only one alive in this relationship." She turned and walked away, her silhouette disappearing into the darkness of the cemetery, leaving him standing exactly where he had chosen to be: alone, in the past, with nothing but a name carved in stone.
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