“Hey, there, Alistair, can I ask you something?” I look up at the voice and see the cute boy, Rahmi, I have a Psych 101 class with. He’s a bit older than me I think, and he’s an upperclassman, and I’m also just super nervous in general, but I nod and glance back down at my hands, waiting for him to continue. “Is there any way you’d like to get coffee or something later? Maybe work on homework for Psych?” His voice falters a bit and I venture a very quick glance up to notice that we’re both blushing furiously. “As a date?” he finally gets out. “I mean, if you’re into guys and stuff. If I’ve completely gotten that wrong, and, um, yeah, if you’re totally straight and stuff then just let me know and we can just go as friends. If that’s still okay.” I look up again, still blushing so hard I swear my cheeks are about to melt off of my face, and he looks almost as embarrassed as I am, with his head tilted down, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. I’ve never actually been on a date with anyone before, so I take a moment to consider my answer. Will Rahmi Morgan be the first boy I go on a date with?
“Sure, if you’d like, we can go.” I guess he will be. “Get coffee or something on a date I mean,” I add quickly, making sure to clarify. He instantly seems to perk up a bit, and it’s as if his anxiety dissipates, because he pulls out his phone and makes sure to get my number, and as he does it his mouth doesn’t stop moving, trying to ask all these questions about what kind of coffee I like and what the hardest part of Psych is for me so far (so we know what to study).
My anxiety is far from gone though, and the thoughts that constantly whirl ‘round in my head start to get going. ‘What if he’s only asking you because he’s pulling a prank on you?’ , ‘There’s no way anyone as cute or as smart as him, or anyone in general really, could actually like you’, ‘Even if he really does like you, he’ll get tired of you eventually’. Things like that are always going on in my head, and worse, even when I don’t want them to be there, and I can never seem to just shrug them off.
Rahmi has finally finished exchanging phone numbers, and his current questions are exhausted for now- I’ve never been good at small talk so I guess that’s my fault- and he finally says his goodbyes. “See you tomorrow at 5:30, okay?” I nod in agreement, and head off to my next class.
This one is a class that actually goes towards my major, engineering, so it’s a math class. Math was one of the few things that I excelled at in high school, despite the fact that I’m really picky about numbers. I suppose it actually is because I’m picky about numbers, and because I like counting numbers that I was good at math- most people like me can be pretty upset by it actually.
I glance at the watch on my wrist, 2 minutes until my next class. Not enough time to stop by the bathrooms and wash by hands like I normally do between classes, because Rahmi stopped to talk to me. I can stop, but it’ll make me late. I sigh, a deep one, and head in the direction of the bathrooms. Five minutes later I walk in late for class, with my original anxiety relieved, though, of course, there’s new anxiety caused by being late for class. I really don’t like being late, but I had to wash my hands between classes, especially because I touched someone else’s phone. People actually use them while they’re in the bathroom. Nobody says anything to me about the fact that I am 3, now 4, minutes late, but I can feel all of their eyes watching me and they’re all secretly judging me in their minds.
I take a few deep breaths like my therapist is trying to get me to work on, and sit down in my seat. I grab the notebook for this class from my bag, as well as the specific pen I have to use with that notebook, which happens to be bright blue. Psych 101’s pen is dark red (my favorite color), and Physics’ pen is green- those are the classes I have today so those are the pens I have with me.
The professor finally begins his lecture (6 minutes after class has started), and I do my best to pay attention. By the end of class I’m missing parts of three fingernails from picking at them, and I’ve written down maybe half of what the professor said. I swear I’m still good at math though... I think. At least, I do really well on the tests and projects. I’m just very bad at paying attention to lectures unless I’m particularly interested (and sometimes I don’t pay very much attention then either), because it’s very hard for my brain to focus- there are too many different thoughts going at the same time. I pack up quickly, making sure not to be the last one out of the classroom.
I almost run into someone in the hallway, and as I look up to apologize, I see that it’s Rahmi. He smiles and waves. “I’m really sorry,” I mumble, already trying to maneuver away from him so that I can hurry to the bathroom and then to my next and final class of the day.
“Oh, it’ no big deal. Why don’t you let me tag along for awhile?” I shrug my shoulders. I don’t really want him to, but I feel bad saying no. I head towards the bathroom and he follows. I do my best to wash my hands as quickly as possible, though when you have to perform rituals all the time you can’t really speed them up at all. The entire time he just watches and doesn’t say anything. ‘He thinks you’re a freak’, there the thoughts are again.
“Sorry, I had something really sticky on my hands and I didn’t know what it was. Plus, it’s cold season, so you can never be too careful, right?” A lie, but I really don’t want him to think I’m weird or a freak, or anything like that. He nods, though I can’t tell if he believes me or not. We leave the bathroom and he walks me to my next class. “What class do you have next?” I ask, realizing that I haven’t actually asked him any questions since he spoke to me (for the first time) this morning.
“I’m actually done for the day,” he says, “Psych is actually just for fun, and I had an art class. Tuesdays are never really busy days in my schedule. Thursday I’ll have more stuff, like a class preparing me for when I have to do my student teaching gig, and then another art class, and a social work class. But the social work and psychology stuff is really just for fun.” He looks at me again and smiles gently. I think he realized that I’m not very good at talking, and he’s trying to help out. Maybe that’s because I hardly ever speak in class.
We’re at my class and I’m actually on time, so he stops at the door. “I’ll see ya soon, fair prince.” I blush at his words, and try to smile back before quickly dashing into the classroom before he can say anymore corny lines.
I spend most of Physics wondering once again if Rahmi actually even likes me, and if he actually even likes boys, and then occasionally picturing the two of us together. Would it be okay to trust someone, to tell someone other than my therapist the things that go on in my head? Would he be annoyed by my “quirks” as my mother calls them, or would he try to help me work through them like my therapist keeps insisting I should do? I shake my head and try to clear my thoughts (even though it never works) as the professor comes in and begins class. Physics is actually somewhat challenging, though I enjoy it a lot, so I have to put in more effort and I usually end up paying more attention somehow.
The drive home is uneventful- I didn’t see Rahmi again on the way to my car, and I had music on so I managed to keep most of the thoughts away. Driving itself is already full of rules and things you have to do, so there’s no need for me to do my own things, I just have to do the things that everything else does, I don’t like driving anyone else though, because then I’m afraid that if they don’t buckle their seatbelt 3 times like I do, then we’ll crash and they’ll be the one to get hurt. My mother has yet to let me drive with her, despite the fact that I’m 20. But I think that's just because she thinks I’m crazy, she just won’t admit it.
I’m not really crazy though, I just can’t control the way my brain works, because I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. My brain has a broken message system, and it sends messages over and over again, or it'll send thoughts I don't want, and it causes me lots of anxiety. So I do things that I know don’t make sense because they make the anxiety go away, or because my brain insists I should, but they make even less sense to other people, who end up thinking that I’m weird or crazy. And I try to hide it by not doing the things that make the anxiety go away. But that usually just makes it worse. So the cycle of anxiety continues and over time I develop more obsessions and more compulsions.


When I get home my mom is gone, probably out at a late lunch with some of her friends, so I don't have to worry about anything with her for now. That's probably a good thing.
I go inside and make sure to put my keys away- I'm always losing them, and I usually have to check at least twice to make sure they're in the right spot. Then I go upstairs to work on homework and study, or at least try to do these things. My room is actually pretty messy, because I only organize specific things, so I toss aside what I don't need to work on right now onto a random chair.


By the time my mom gets home a few hours later, I've completed all of my math work and I'm in the process of studying for physics- we have a test next week that I do not want to do poorly on.
She calls me down for dinner and I grudgingly push all of my work aside. Sadly she brought home pizza, even though she knows I don't like to eat any sort of fast food or pizza because it's definitely contaminated and there's no way we can make sure it's clean. I struggle to eat two pieces, enough to make her happy, but more than enough to make me never want to eat pizza again, and then go to scrub the grease off of my hands.
“Alistair, enough of that,” she murmurs as she passes the bathroom in the hallway. But then she’s gone, not stopping to make sure that I even heard what she said, much less that I listened. I finish washing my hands- because I’m simply done- and then head back upstairs. I try to study again, but end up passing out instead pretty quickly.


The next day classes go as they normally do. I don’t have Psych today, and I don’t see Rahmi around campus. I start to worry that maybe he really doesn’t want anything to do with me after all. He hasn’t texted me either, but maybe that’s my fault.
My last class finally ends at 4, and I head to the bathroom to wash my hands like always. “I thought maybe I’d find you here,” a voice says quietly, and I look in the mirror to see who it is, just a tad startled. Of course it’s Rahmi. My face predictably burns bright red and I scrub my hands harder so that I can be done sooner.
“What makes you say that?” I mumble, dreading the answer. I’m sure it’ll be something like ‘Because you’re a freak who hangs out in the bathroom too much’ or something similarly embarrassing and upsetting.
Instead he changes the subject entirely. “How about we go get our coffee early?” he asks, leaning against the sink while I finally finish up my hand-washing. He hands me paper towels too while he waits for me to think about it.
I really, really hate it when plans are changed, especially when it seems unnecessary to do so. But I also am almost equally unsure about Rahmi Morgan, and I have no clue what his game is, or if he’s even playing one. I find myself agreeing to this, and somehow he convinces me that we should both ride together in his car too. Definitely not a good idea, not a good idea, not a good idea, “Sure, I guess.” Oh boy.

At the coffee shop, we both pull out our psych textbooks and our current assignments, but it doesn’t take very long for us to get off topic. “Why are you taking Psych and those social work classes if your major is in art and education?” I asked him, trying my best to be sociable. This started a very long discussion.
“Well, I really want to be an art teacher, but everyone studies things outside their major. And I’ve actually also decided that if I don’t succeed in finding a job as an art teacher, or if I don’t enjoy it, etc., etc., I kind of want to become an art therapist. I would need a little bit of experience with social work at least, and getting credits now kind of helps with needing them in the future. If I do need them in the future.” He pauses for a moment and we both sip on our coffee. “Plus,” he finally adds, “ don’t you feel a little bit of curiosity about it?”
“About what?” I’m suddenly feeling just a tad afraid, worried that he might see me as some sort of curiosity.
“About the science behind it all. Dealing with disorders gives you curiosity, right?”
I feel my face blanch a bit. Of course I want to understand the science behind it all, but I’m not going to tell that to a guy who asked me out just to ask me how it feels to be a freak. “I think I should leave...” I start to put my textbook and papers away, though like almost everything in my life it takes longer in my life than it should.
“No, wait, Alistair, please.” He starts to tug my bag away from me and I just stare at him. “Let me explain what I was trying to say, I phrased it wrong. I’m an idiot.” He murmurs the last part under his breath, probably not intending for me to hear it.
“Fine,” I huff, “be quick though.”
“First of all, I really am sorry. I should not have said it like that at all. And the only reason I tried to say anything like that at all was because it was my terrible way of saying that that was why I started taking psych classes. That’s why I was asking if it had been the same for you. I struggle with a lot of depression and anxiety, and even though it’s fairly well managed right now, I’m always trying to learn more about it. Partly so that I can help myself, partly so that I can help other people. And I just wanted to know if you were the same way.” He finishes his little speech and the expression in his eyes is so sincere that I feel bad for being so sensitive in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t be, I understand if you’re apprehensive when it comes to people. You should know that I think you’re really cute though, and I really like you, and I don’t want to do anything to hurt you.” My cheeks go red and I adjust the sleeves of my sweater, something I’ve always done- not as a Compulsion though.
We talk for awhile longer, before he finally has to go home. He has to help his little sister with her homework, he tells me. So we part ways, but not before he drops me back off at my car.


Later, he texts me, sending me a picture of his sister, who looks a lot like him. She’s studying math homework. A moment later he sends another picture, this time of them together. She looks like he had just startled her, but in a good, sibling teasing way because they’re both laughing. Her braid is flying through the air and his unnatural shock of pink is sticking out at all angles, like he’d just run a hand through it. They look happy. I send a quick text back, and then look at the picture of the two of them once more before going to bed.


Two months later we pull up in front of his house. Like always, he insisted on driving me. He said it’s because he wants me to feel as little anxiety as possible, but I still feel like he doesn’t trust me, the same way my mom thinks I’m crazy and doesn’t like my “quirks”. This time though, I didn’t argue. He finally wants me to meet his parents, and to meet his little sister. I’ve met his older sister Rene, and his older brother, Richard, but I’ve never met Raini, who’s his favorite- his parents really liked ‘r’ names for their kids.
“Raini is really excited to meet you tonight, and so is my mother. I don’t usually bring people home when I date, and I’ve also told both of them all sorts of things about you.” My head shoots up and I look at him with a horrified look on my face. “Don’t worry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t say anything bad, about you, and the only things I said that could be at all related to your OCD were that you got nervous easily and that you liked to be in control of anything you used.” I nod and take a deep breath.
“Okay, that’s not too bad.” I pause for a moment. “I really hope I don’t let down them or you.”
“Oh, Alistair, please don’t worry about that. I know my saying so doesn’t help, but you won’t let me down. And the only way you can let my family down is by letting me down. And since I say you won’t let me down, it’s not possible to do anything bad, okay?” I nod again, even though he made no sense. I know he says things like that to try and make me feel better though, so I go along with it.
Before we’ve even quite reached the door, Raini, who’s almost as tall as I am, comes bursting out. “Rahmi,” she cries, “you’re here!” She flings her arms around him and hugs him tight for a moment. Then she turns to me. “Hello Alistair. Rahmi really likes you. He told me not to talk a lot, so I’m going to try very hard not to talk too much, okay?” I nod at her, not really sure what else to do. She’s 12, the same age as my brother, whom I don’t get to see much, but she seems much more respectful and intelligent than him, even if she talks a lot.
She leads us inside, and despite what she had just said a few moments before, she is indeed talking a lot. “Raini really is trying,” Rahmi whispers to me. “Normally she’d be talking much faster- so fast you’d have no clue what words are coming out of her mouth.” I believe it, but I don’t find it annoying like I think Rahmi thought I would. Her words mimic my own thought pattern, or at least the way my thoughts can be, which I find oddly comforting.
Raini leads us into the living room where Rahmi’s other siblings are, and his parents. His mother rises from her seat to come great me, as does his father. “You must be Alistair,” his mother says, putting a hand on my shoulder. Her voice has a slight accent and it sounds beautiful. “I’m Mrs. Morgan, but of course you can call me ummi, which means mom and is what my kids call me. I would offer to let you call me by my first name, but sadly even my husband has a hard time with the pronunciation sometimes, so I won’t give you a hard time too.” She turns back to smile at her husband playfully.
“And I’m Richard Morgan,” her husband says, stretching out his hand. I shake it carefully, never having been particularly great at handshakes. “No difficult pronunciation there,” playful smile back at his wife, “so you can just call me Richard or Mr. Morgan, whichever you feel most comfortable with. If you really want, you can call me dad, but my kids don’t always call me that, they usually just call me “hey you over there”, so feel free to follow in either of those examples too.
“I’m going to go check on dinner,” Mrs. Morgan cuts back in. “Why don’t you two sit down, it looks like Raini wants to speak to you some more.” Raini does indeed want to speak to me some more- she’s tugging on my sweater sleeve, trying to pull me over to where she wants to sit.
I end up cushioned between Rene and Raini, with Rahmi at my feet. Raini is trying to explain why I should help her petition her parents to let her travel overseas and visit her cousins, and Rene is on her phone texting her boyfriend and occasionally giving me a sympathetic look. Apparently I’m not the only one Raini has tried this on. Rahmi glances up at me every minute or so to make sure I’m okay, and he gives my hand a little squeeze when he does so. Both Richards have left the room- Rahmi’s brother left while introductions were being made, presumably to go work on something, and Richard the elder left to go help his wife. So now it’s just the four of us and only one person is talking. But it’s okay.
Actually, even though I’ve only been here for about twenty minutes so far, the entire thing has been pretty okay. Rahmi’s family seems much more inclined towards talking and spending time together than my family ever has, which is almost shocking to experience, but it’s really nice to be a part of something like this.
His mother comes back in to call everyone to dinner. It ends up being one of my favorite dishes- steak and potatoes, which I think was intentional. Dinner goes really well, and no one says anything about the fact that I had to wash my hands for 3 minutes beforehand. Not even Richard the younger, who can be a real dick, and not in the good way.


After dinner, Rahmi starts to drive me home but he makes a detour instead. “Do you mind coming over to my place for a bit? I want to talk to you about something.” He knows by now how anxious I get when plans are changed, so I know he wouldn’t do this unless it were really important.
“Alright. It’s not like I can really do anything one way or the other, since you’re the one driving,” I joke. He smiles a tense smile and continues driving in the direction of his apartment.


At his apartment we get out and he leads me in, making sure to turn on all the lights in his apartment as he goes. I lock the door behind me, exactly 3 times. But then I mess up and do it a fourth time on accident, so I have to do it another time to make 5, because 5 is better than 4.
“Alistair, c’mon.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sighs, and has me sit down on the couch while he sits on a chair so that he can look at me while he talks. “I don’t really like talking about this, but it’s really important for you to know, especially now that we’re getting a lot closer- or at least that I feel that we are- and now that you’ve met my family.”
I wait for him to keep going. Usually it isn’t so hard for him to talk about things, like it is for me, so I wonder what it could possibly be.
“I know that I look a lot like my siblings, and I act a lot like them, but I was actually adopted. And I’ve known this from a very young age. I always felt a little out of place, and kind of unwanted, even though I love my family very much, and I know, most of the time at least, that they love me. This is what caused a lot of my anxiety and depression, and sometimes being around my family brings it out a little bit.” He finishes and puts his head in his hands. No wonder he was so quiet tonight. I reach out and grab his hands, trying my best to comfort him. I know I’m bad at it though, and I feel useless.
“Your family really loves you, and you fit in really well. I wouldn’t have ever known if you hadn’t told me, and I pick up on almost everything,” I say softly, even though I know it probably won’t help. “And your family is so kind, I don’t think they would ever want you to feel like this, though I’m sure you already know that.”
He looks up at me a bit and smiles. “Thanks Alistair, I know you’re trying to help.”
“Do you want to know something about me?” I ask, my voice even softer this time. It's the only other thing I can think of doing. I don’t want him to feel bad so I’ll think about bad things instead. He just stares at me so I continue. “My dad used to beat me a lot, because I'm gay, and that's part of the reason my parents are no longer together. He tells my brother horrible things about me, so Louis will never want to speak to me either.” I have to pause for a moment and take a couple of deep breaths.
“You don't have to keep telling me this,” he says, but I shake my head.
“I should trust you the way you trusted me.” He shakes his head but I continue anyway. “I almost died a couple of times. In part from the beatings, and in part from trying to kill myself....but I didn't actually tell anyone about that until I started seeing my therapist. My mother insisted that I see someone after she got separated from my father. I didn't want to but now I'm glad I did. Now I know that even though my mom and everyone else thinks I'm crazy, I'm not. I would get rid of everything, all the bad thoughts, all the counting and organizing and everything else, I swear it, if there was some sort of off-switch.”
By now I can't really hold much of the anxiety back, and I'm getting awfully close to tears. Rahmi does something he's never dared to do before- he grabs me and pulls me close. He's never given me a hug before, probably because he doesn't think I'd like it. But right now I feel safe for once. The anxiety goes away just a little, without me having to perform some ridiculous, illogical compulsion to do so. We stay like that for a long time, and it's nice.




Two more months later we're leaving an appointment with my therapist and heading out to the car. Rahmi went with me today, and it was the first time I let anyone else be in there. He wants to try and help me work through my obsessions and compulsions as best he can, and to do that he asked if he could attend a session and see what my therapist suggested he try.
“Hey, in honor of you helping me, you should let me drive,” I call as we near the car. He shakes his head at first but then he pauses.
“You know what? I think I will let you drive this time.” He mutters something else before tossing me the keys and getting in the passenger seat.


“Are you buckled?”
“Yes- it's the fifth time you've asked me.”
“Five is the lucky number.”
“That's what you said about 3.”
“Well 5 is better than 3.”
“Alistair, just drive,” he sighs, “nothing bad is going to happen to me, I promise you.”
“Okay...” I start the car, and slowly back out into the parking lot. And then the street. And then we're with other cars who can hit us and hurt Rahmi.
“It's okay Alistair, take some deep breaths and focus on the road.”


At his apartment he stops me before I get out. “Good job, that was actually better than I'd expected.”
I mumble a few choice words under my breath halfheartedly.
“Hey, I want to ask you something serious.” I immediately pay attention and I hope it isn't anything bad. “Will you move in with me? If it's too soon or something, I understand and you can say so, but I think it would help me help you a lot. And you know I have that extra room for your sweater collection,” he jokes.
I don't know what to say, or really how to respond at all other than by starting to cry. Here he is trying to help me and I'm....well I'm a mess. I guess that's why I need his help in the first place.
“Hey, hey, I didn't mean to upset you, are you okay?” he asks, very concerned.
I lean over and hug him tight. “No, but I think I will be.”