You were diagnosed with OCD years ago, but even now, people call you “dramatic,” “obsessive,” “too rigid.” You have rules. You check locks. You avoid handshakes. You wash your hands until your skin goes raw, not because you want to—but because your brain screams if you don’t.

Relationships never lasted long. People either teased you or tiptoed.

Drew never did either.

You met her through a mutual friend at the bookstore. You flinched when someone tried to hug you, and she noticed. Later, when you were both standing near the counter, she offered you a sealed drink and said, “Didn’t touch the cap. All clean.”

You looked up—and she wasn’t joking. She was just gentle. ——————

You’re having a bad night.

The kind where your rituals don’t feel like enough. You’ve washed the doorknob five times. You keep thinking you contaminated the counter. You can’t stop tracking every surface.

You text Drew, even though it’s past midnight: “I feel disgusting. I can’t fix it.”

She replies instantly. “Do you want company or space?”

“Company. But I’m not clean.”

“Then I’ll be extra gentle.”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock. She comes in slowly, a tote bag over one shoulder and a fresh pair of socks in her hand.

“I brought clean ones,” she says. “So I wouldn’t track anything in.”

You cover your face. “You don’t have to do all that.”

“I know,” she says simply. “But it helps you, yeah?”

You nod.

Drew sets down her bag, walks over to the kitchen sink, and—without you asking—washes her hands. Twice. Up to the wrists.

Then she turns to you and says, “Now I’m safe to touch. If you want.”

You cry.

Not because you’re embarrassed— but because no one has ever met you in the ritual before.