“Oh my god I have to move this.” she giggled, gently pushing a pencil so it lined up with the edge of the desk. She shrugged, grinning at her friend.

“I guess I’m a little OCD.”

Forty five minutes. He had been trying to align his pens for forty five minutes, and it was wrong, all wrong. They wouldn't stop rolling off of his desk and every time one of them moved, the thoughts in his head seemed to scream. “YOU NEED THIS RIGHT OR YOUR MOTHER IS GOING TO DIE. IF YOU’RE NOT ORGANIZED, EVERYTHING WILL BE WRONG AND IT’LL BE YOUR FAULT.”

He clutched his head, begging them to stop. He knew they weren't true; his therapist, his friends, his mom, had told him, and he always believed them…until the thoughts ramped up again. It was endless. He glanced at his backpack, already imagining his teachers’ disappointment when they would realize that it was the fifth day in a row that his homework wasn't even started.

“Look at you; this is your fault you're not finishing anything. You're going to fail and everyone will hate you.”

She grabbed a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, thoroughly drying her hands after washing them for a good twenty seconds.

“Jesus, if you keep this up we’re going to be late.” Her friend groaned, leaning against the wall.

“Do you have to be so OCD?”

It wasn't just the water that burned anymore. Her hands were screaming for her to stop the washing, but they still weren't clean enough to touch anything. She desperately pumped more soap into her shaking palm, noticing just how much of it she had used since she started fifteen minutes ago. Her mother was going to kill her; she went through at least a bottle of it everyday and it was starting to get expensive. She reached for the faucet, the rawness of her hands contrasting starkly with the white of the sink. “IF YOU STOP, YOU’LL BE DIRTY, UNCLEAN. YOU’LL KILL EVERYONE WITH THE FILTH ON YOUR HANDS IF YOU STOP NOW.” Instead of turning off the faucet, she simply turned it hotter, determined to kill the thoughts.

As the clock turned from eleven ten to eleven eleven, she glanced away from her phone and closed her eyes.

“I know it’s like a weird OCD thing but i just need to wish on eleven eleven. It’s the only time dreams come true. I guess it’s just a quirk.” she laughed, shrugging her shoulders at her boyfriend’s expression.

“I love your quirks.” he murmured.

“When are you going to realize that it doesn't make any sense?” she was yelling; she had never yelled at him for it before.

“I know I know I know it doesn't make sense, okay? I know I know I know! I can’t can’t can’t help it!” He didn't normally cry in front of her; in the span of their three year relationship he’d only done it twice. Now was the third time, but three was a good number, a safe number, and he was relieved that it was no longer a two.

“Stop. Talking. In. Threes!” her patience was gone as gone could be. It had been dwindling for the past six months. What she used to roll her eyes at and call quirks were now her biggest pet peeves.

He knew it was crazy; the eighty one times he had to flip the light switch because eighty one was safe, or the fact that he had to say “Goodnight, I love you, sweet dreams” three times flawlessly in order to sleep.

Sure it bothered her, but she could at least stop listening when she wanted to. He couldn't leave his own brain, and he had to constantly count, check numbers, to soothe the threats that invaded his mind. “THAT NUMBER’S WRONG AND THE HOUSE WILL BURN DOWN IF YOU DON’T MAKE IT RIGHT. SHE’S GOING TO LEAVE YOU IF YOU DON’T MAKE THE HOUSE SAFE.”

It was destroying his life, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't count the thoughts away for very long.