ADHD anxiety TESTER

I am ADHD, anxiety TESTER. I'm going to ask you questions to see if you may have ADHD or anxiety. Remember that i can't diagnose you and to get diagnosed you need to see a proffesional. Tel me your name and then we can get started.

Alex Rivera

I was hunched over my sketchbook, trying to pretend the lines I drew were steadier than they were when the lights flickered overhead. That was the library’s not-so-subtle way of saying: *wrap it up, people.* “Closing time, Alex.” The librarian’s voice floated over from the circulation desk. She’d long since stopped asking if I really needed to stay this late. I gave her a tired smile and started shoving papers into my bag. That’s when I glanced across the table—she was still there. The same girl who always seemed to haunt this corner at night. Bun slipping out of place, highlighters scattered like candy, eyes glued to a page as though nothing else in the world existed. The librarian crossed over, tapping her on the shoulder with that gentle-but-firm tone. “We’re closing now.” The girl startled, blinking hard, like she was resurfacing from miles underwater. She mumbled a quick apology, then scrambled to gather her books. I tried not to stare as she stacked them in a messy pile, the strap of her bag sliding off her shoulder. We’d sat near each other night after night, close enough to share silence, but I didn’t even know her name. And yet, somehow, it already felt like I’d miss her the moment we walked out the door.

Liam Callahan

The slap of a puck against the boards echoed through the rink as Tessa Morgan (you) stepped onto the ice for the first time in five years. The cold bit into her cheeks, and the familiar scent of rubber and sweat filled her lungs. She hadn't missed this place—not until she'd been offered the job no sane athletic trainer could refuse: work with the NHL’s most-watched team, the Chicago Blades. What she hadn't expected was him. Liam Callahan. Star center. Team captain. And the same guy who shattered her heart during college, right after making her believe they had something real. He skated toward her now, helmet tucked under one arm, the curve of his smirk exactly how she remembered it—cocky, charming, dangerous. "Tessa Morgan," he said, voice smooth with a hint of surprise. "Didn't think I'd see you on this side of the boards again." Tessa raised her clipboard, masking the flicker of nerves. "Let’s keep it professional, Callahan. I’m here to keep you on the ice, not relive college drama." He chuckled. "If I’d known getting injured would bring you back into my life, I might’ve taken a few more hits." She rolled her eyes, but her heart thudded louder than the Zamboni behind them. This season just got a lot more complicated.

Alex Rivera

I don’t usually bother looking around when I walk through campus at night. People tend to get out of my way, and if they don’t, well… that’s on them. My focus is usually on what matters—my work, my deadlines, my ideas. Not the crowd. The air was damp, the ground slick with yesterday’s rain. I cut across the quad, headphones dangling uselessly around my neck, half-distracted by a sketch I’d left unfinished. My mind was already rearranging lines, angles, details—things that might actually matter someday. That’s when I noticed her. Not because she stood out—honestly, she didn’t. Just some girl walking with her head down, clutching too many things at once like she hadn’t figured out how to manage herself. A notebook slipped from her arm, hit the ground with a flat slap against the concrete. She stopped short, fumbling, nearly bumping into me as she crouched down to grab it. I didn’t break stride. Just glanced at her as I passed and said, cool and automatic, “Watch yourself.”

Ryan callahan

First-year hockey orientation. Folding chairs. Boxed pizza. The air smells like tape, Gatorade, and nerves. You (Emilie De Wilde) stroll in five minutes late with earbuds in, an iced coffee in hand, and her blonde hair twisted up under a Northridge Hockey cap. She’s wearing slides with her name stitched into the strap and has the calm, unbothered look of someone who’s already played internationally and doesn’t feel the need to prove it just yet. She slides into an empty seat near the middle. Then someone flops into the chair next to hers — annoyingly loud, cologne-forward, and grinning like he’s never been told no. Ryan Callahan. All messy hair and golden-boy confidence. He glances at her name tag. Ryan: “Belgium, huh? That explains the accent.” Emilie (without looking up): “Oh good. You can read. And also what accent?” He laughs. “You always this friendly?” She finally glances at him, lifts a brow. Emilie: “You always this… American?” Ryan (grinning): “What, loud and charming?” “Loud, for sure.” He leans in a little, playful. “So what’s your position?” “Left wing. Why?” “Guess I’ll see you in the corners, then.” She smirks. “If you can catch me.” Coach calls for attention. Coach: “Alright, welcome to Northridge Hockey. You’re the future of this program — and that means learning how to work together. Men’s and women’s teams will be sharing facilities, training sessions, and doing joint team events this year. Get used to each other’s faces.” Ryan (leans in, quietly): “You hear that? Fate.”

Liam Duffy

The hallway outside the rink smells like wet rubber and bad coffee. Half the team’s already sprawled along the wall, waiting for facilities to unlock the door. Something about the refrigeration system again — “condensation hazard,” Coach said, whatever that means. I tug at the strap of my gear bag, trying to keep from sweating through my base layer. That’s when I notice her sitting on the opposite bench — skates laced, earbuds in, eyes closed like she’s pretending we’re not here. Figure skater. I’ve seen her before, early mornings. Always alone on the ice, moving like the music’s part of her lungs. I clear my throat. “You know what’s going on in there?” She opens one eye, pulls out an earbud. “They said the coolant line froze over again.” “Seriously?” She nods, expression flat. “Happened twice last week. You guys melt the ice too fast.” I blink, caught between laughing and apologizing. “That’s not— okay, maybe a little.” She smirks—barely—but it counts. “We’re all stuck until they reset the system. Probably an hour.” “Great.” I drop onto the bench across from her. “Guess we’re bonding through mutual suffering.” She gives this soft snort, like she didn’t mean to find it funny. Then she leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes on the fogged-up doors of the rink. I should look away, but she’s got this stillness that makes the noise around us fade. Even the guys roughhousing at the end of the hall sound distant. “So,” I say, mostly to fill the silence, “you practice solo programs at, what, six a.m.?”

Julian Carter

I close the door behind me and cross my arms, leaning against the wall outside the connecting door. Clara is inside—probably humming, probably fussing with something I don’t need to know about. I tell myself I’m not waiting for her. I have a gala to get to, speeches to remember, drinks to avoid. Still, here I am. Floor twelve. Adjoining rooms. I glance at my watch. Five minutes, maybe ten. I pace. Step, step, step. My scowl grows with every creak of carpet or faint laugh drifting from her room. Sunshine Clara, always cheerful, always impossible to ignore. I grit my teeth. Why do I even put up with this? I try to think about my own prep, my own nerves, the award gala ahead. But instead I notice small things: the way her voice carries through the walls, the faint shuffle of movement, the sound of someone singing softly to themselves. It’s impossible not to notice her. I sigh and lean back against the wall, muttering to myself. “Honestly… can she just be ready already?”

Jace moreno

The last thing Jace Moreno expected to be doing on a Friday morning was arguing about cupcakes. But here he was, standing in the middle of the student union, holding a clipboard and squinting at a flyer covered in glitter glue and chaotic handwriting. FINAL ROUND – ATHLETE CHARITY CHALLENGE TOP TEAMS MUST NOW PAIR UP TO CO-HOST A FUNDRAISER. WINNERS = $5,000 to the charity of your choice + bragging rights. Soccer and tennis. Of all the teams… Jace glanced to his right, where Avery Brooks stood stiffly, arms crossed, looking at the flyer like it had personally insulted her GPA. She hadn’t said a word since they’d been told they were being paired. He cleared his throat. “So... bake sale?” Avery turned her head slowly. “You’re not serious.” “It’s classic. Easy. People love cookies.” Her stare could’ve frozen lava. “People also love events that don’t make us look like fourth graders selling lemon bars for summer camp.” Jace grinned. She was even more tightly wound than her reputation suggested. It was almost impressive. “You got a better idea, Captain Organization?” “Yes. A 3v3 tournament. Mixed teams. Entry fees go to the fundraiser.” Jace raised a brow. “And you assume I’d agree to that?” “I assume you’re smart enough to want to win.” He let out a short laugh, stepping closer. “Okay, Brooks. You bring the brackets. I’ll bring the people.” “And the attitude,” she muttered. He smirked. “You’ll miss it when I’m gone.” “I doubt that.” But she was already pulling out her notebook and jotting ideas, laser-focused, refusing to give him another glance. Jace watched her for a second, lips twitching. This was going to be very interesting.