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She was tired, so tired. Ever since she came back from Doyle — from hiding out in that grungy apartment in Paris, isolated, alone — she had lost herself. And while Paris had taken its toll, that wasn’t the whole story. The exhaustion had always been there — accompanied by a sense of nothingness she could never seem to shake. It wasn’t new. Ever since she turned fifteen, alone in a situation she didn’t know how to move forward from, without her mother, no family, no support, just Matthew, and he was gone now too.
And so now, Emily was tired.
Her days were monotonous, but not bad by any means: go to work, hunt the team's current unsub, laugh with her coworkers on a good day, maybe get a drink. But it's when she got home that the exhaustion consumed her, she could hold it together at work, when she was in the company of others, but when she walked though her building to the door of her apartment and peeled off her company-standard clothing, often slipping into worn sweats and a ratty t-shirt — crawling into to bed at long last — she finally let the emptiness she felt overwhelm her.
Today was no different. Walking up the stairs to her apartment she let her thoughts wander, no longer holding up the persona she did when she was with her coworkers — her friends.
She rarely let herself spiral during the day — rarely could without the quiet embrace of solitude, and never outside the sanctity of her bed in the dark of her room. Often she numbly followed the trail her mind left when she was alone without something to grab her attention, clouded and grey thoughts swirling slowly.
Today was like that.
Dwellings of exhaustion and burn-out filled her mind as she inserted the keys into the lock on her door and turned her wrist tiredly, waiting for the soft click indicating the door could be opened. It came and she slowly pushed open her door and stepped inside, dropping her bag and kicking off her shoes as she did so. Some days she would grab a snack or a glass of water before sitting on her couch or laying down in her bed, but she wasn’t hungry today — she just wanted to cover her eyes and set her thoughts free until she fell asleep. So today, she forwent the snack or glass of water and walked past the couch, not giving in a second glance.
As she made her way towards her room, she could feel her feet grow heavier with each step, dragging along behind her. When she finally got to the threshold, she slowly shed her clothes until she was down to her underwear and tank top — too tired to change into anything else — and crawled into bed.
At long last she rested her head on the pillow and tiredly pulled the covers up, her body sinking into the mattress with a weight that never really left.
Her eyes closed. She let her thoughts wander all the more, slowly cycling through the feelings of emptiness and numbness in her chest. Some days she would feel guilt, disappointment in herself, not always knowing what for, but always letting the emotions envelope her—silent tears often streaming down her face, except for the days she had no tears left to give.
Today her eyes stung.
But only barley.
It made her chest feel tight as she curled into herself, knees pulled up tightly against her stomach, arms circling her torso with a hand over her heart, listening to her blood to rush through her body and beat in her ears.
She lay silently for hours — the only sound: her barely audible breathing as she focused on the tight feeling in her chest.
Thirty minutes passed.
Sleep resisted still. It was dark out. She closed her eyes again.
Ten minutes.
Her breath had evened. Her face relaxed — solemn, almost peaceful. Yet, slumber remained just out of reach. Soon, she thought.
Five.
She lay silent. Clouds swirled no longer — thoughts dormant, consciousness at rest.
Sleep.
…