“So it’s not just handwashing,” he says. “That probably sounds ignorant, but that’s what I would have associated with OCD.”
“Not for me, no. I’m actually not a very organized person, which is almost annoying—like, if I’m going to have OCD, it should at least make me better at cleaning up!” He cracks a smile at that, like he knows it’s okay to. And it is. “But yeah, that’s what a lot of people think. They’ll say, ‘Oh, you mean you wash your hands a lot?’ or ‘I’m so OCD, I have to have an organized locker.’ It’s not just wanting things to be organized. It’s a real illness, and honestly… it can be brutal.”
The worst of it was a few years ago: I couldn’t trust that the front door of our house was locked, which made it difficult to fall asleep. So I’d go downstairs, check the lock, come back upstairs—before wondering if I checked it enough, or if maybe while checking it, I’d somehow swiped it with my sleeve or a strand of hair and managed to unlock it. If it wasn’t locked, I was certain someone would break in and kill my family, and it would be my fault for not checking enough. In my mind, that was an inevitability. Back downstairs I’d go, checking it double the length of time… and end up trapped in a loop. It got so bad that for a full month I barely slept through the night.
What I don’t tell him is that it started when my mom moved out, that I never felt safe in the house with just the three of us. Not because we needed two parents to protect us, but because the house felt off. There’s no other way to explain it. I was stealthy about it back then, though. I didn’t want my parents to have yet another thing to worry about.
And it just didn’t go away, the anxiety only pushing pushing pushing against my lungs and taking up space inside my head. When my parents finally did figure it out years later, I thought they would brush it off, tell me I was acting silly, but I’d woken them up on more than one occasion, and when I told them I couldn’t control it, they took it seriously. They believed me, took me to a therapist, and slowly, slowly, I’ve gotten better about living with uncertainty. I can understand Tarek’s relief, knowing you don’t have to let your mind betray you over and over.
“Some of the things you do,” he says softly. “The keys. I’ve noticed. I always thought you were looking for something in your bag. I hope it’s not rude to say that?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s okay. Sometimes I feel weird about people noticing, but honestly, I think it’s better that they know. Therapy helps, and I take medication too. I’m not embarrassed about it or anything. Or at least, I’m not anymore.”
“I’m glad you told me,” he says. “We missed out on a lot this past year, huh?”
“And before that too.”
He nods, and the two of us are quiet for a while. It isn’t a charged, uncomfortable kind of quiet. For once my mind isn’t a hundred places at the same time. If we were friends before, whatever we’re becoming feels like more of that. Something honest and real and new.
“It kills me that you said what happened this past year hurt you,” he says, and there’s genuine concern on his face. “Fuck, I am so sorry. For last year, and for this summer, too. You were right—I’ve been overcompensating, and that was shitty. Can you forgive me? For all of it?”
“Yes,” I say. There’s no hesitation. “Yes.” He visibly exhales, like this has been weighing on him. “You seemed so confident when you got here.”
“It was hard to build myself back up over the past year. Therapy and medication helped, of course, but my pride took this massive hit. I really did like my classes, and I love the campus. Especially in the spring, it’s beautiful. I’m interested in this stuff. I just… struggled. Being away from home was harder than I thought it would be. And—” A pause. A softening of his mouth. “Being away from you… was harder than I thought it would be.”
I wanted to take my time with it. That was what he said about the email earlier. I was so wrapped up in what he was telling me that it barely registered, but now it’s all I can think about.
“It was?” I say. That momentary peace is gone. Now I am all charged molecules, a spinning, buzzing brain.
The space between our bodies grows smaller. “I love Mansour’s, but I also really liked seeing you at work. That was, like, the highlight of my
