3. Sam
3
Sam
T oday had been one disaster after another. First, I’d run out of milk, meaning I couldn’t have my morning cup of tea, which was basically a crime. Next, I’d checked my email to see that a client needed a set of fifteen graphics. Not a problem, aside from the fact that she needed them this morning .
I’d just got through that when my phone rang. The next hour was spent reassuring a hysterical author that, no, her career wasn’t over. Everyone didn’t hate her, and people were loving her new book.
I was so confused as to what information she was basing her impending demise on. I’d checked the rankings to see her latest release sat happily in the number one spot as it had for the past four days. On further questioning, it transpired that she hadn’t even checked her author dashboard. All of her fears were based on ‘vibes.’
Basically, her anxiety was doing a fucking number on her, convincing her of shit that simply wasn’t true.
Having a lot of experience with that myself, I knew exactly how to talk her down. By the time we hung up, she was calm and ready to write.
If only I was able to talk my own brain down as easily.
Dealing with my authors wasn’t a negative thing; it was part of the services I offered. As well as doing organising and marketing, I was a sounding board. A safe space for them to be able to vent or just cry. I was happy to do it.
But it had put me behind.
By two p.m., a headache was banging at my temples and fatigue was weighing on me.
It didn’t help that I’d stayed up until three a.m. chatting to Zeke. At the time, I’d regretted nothing. What was a little exhaustion if I got some happiness first?
The answer had hit me like a sledgehammer this morning when I slept through my alarm. I didn’t wake until the sun was high in the sky, my phone buzzing almost constantly as various clients tried to reach me.
One even worried I was dead, and threatened to do a welfare check.
I wasn’t dead, I just felt like it.
On an ordinary day, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Even with a tonne of shit going on, I’d still be able to sneak a few minutes to chat with Zeke. But with a to-do list as long as my arm, it had made things more difficult than usual. Add in the extra work that’d slowed me down, and I barely had time to breathe, let alone check the gaming app.
It was ridiculous how much it was irritating me. My mood shouldn’t have been dependent on whether I could chat with someone or not. I had a life. A job. I couldn’t spend all my time online with Zeke.
Even if that was what I truly wanted to do.
Some people might have been able to push some of the tasks to the next day, but not me. I had to be perfect…which meant never missing a deadline. Missing it would mean I was failing. Failing in one area meant I’d fail in all areas.
And failing in all areas meant I’d end up homeless with no food or shelter and quite possibly no clothes either. I would be naked, wandering the streets in the rain. It was simply the end of the world at that point.
No, it wasn’t logical. Yes, I knew that. But it didn’t change anything.
Not getting it done simply wasn’t an option.
By the time I finally finished, it was gone eleven p.m. Sleep was tugging at my eyelids, but nothing was going to stop me logging on to the game. All damn day I’d been glancing at my screen, longing to open the app just to see if Zeke had messaged.
I’d managed to resist, knowing if I checked, I’d lose several more hours.
Now though, with everything else done, I could give in to temptation. After the shitty day I’d had, I needed to talk to him. To have a few hours where I could just…be myself.
That was the thing about online friendships—you didn’t need to mask as much. There was time to think through your response before you sent it. No one was analysing your body language or tone of voice. It was just words on the screen, crafting whatever persona you wanted.
The irony that the persona I showed was my true self didn’t escape me. With Zeke, I was almost reverse catfishing. I was exactly the person I was on the inside.
But if we ever met in real life? That wouldn’t be the version he’d meet. It couldn’t be, not when I’d let my guard down in the past only to pay with my own heartbreak.
The screen loaded and my heart sank as I spotted the little grey dot beside Zeke’s name. He’d sent me a couple of messages during the day, just saying hi and asking what time I’d be around, but the last one had been sent four hours ago.
I tried to ignore the gnawing disappointment in my stomach. What was I doing, hanging all my hopes of joy on an online chat with a stranger?
Maybe this was for the best. We could go one day without talking. We should. This dependency I was feeling was far from healthy.
My fingers danced over the keys as I typed out that I was sorry to have missed him, but I’d be around tomorrow. Before I could hit send, his icon turned green.
Yes. Hastily deleting what I’d typed, I quickly replaced it with a greeting.
Sam
Hey! Sorry I wasn’t around today. It’s been crazy.
Zeke
No worries! Did an author need you to run to their aid at a signing or something like that?
I flinched, grateful for the screen between us. As a romance reader, I would love to go to a signing. There were lots all over the world, and I’d been invited as an assistant by several of my authors. There were just too many obstacles in my way. I’d need to know everything about the event—the itinerary, the venue, where the toilets were. On top of that, I’d need detailed instructions as to what my author needed from me and what I was expected to do. It wasn’t that I couldn’t think on my feet, but the anxiety surrounding not knowing what was required was huge. Finally, there were the crowds and noise to consider. How could I assist when I wasn’t even certain if I’d be able to cope staying in the room?
I couldn’t admit any of that to my clients, so instead I always politely declined, citing a schedule clash. I liked to think that one day I’d be comfortable attending.
There were lots of things I’d love to be comfortable with, one day. I wished they didn’t seem so unobtainable.
Sam
Not today
I gave Zeke the full rundown of my day, and with each message I typed, the stress I’d been carrying lessened a little more. When was the last time I’d had the chance to do something as simple as rant about my shitty day to someone else?
I genuinely couldn’t remember.
Sam
To top it off, I had to cart fifty book boxes to the post office. Guess when I had to do it
Zeke
oh, shit. Don’t tell me you did it during the rain?
That’s right, earlier that afternoon, London had been the centre of a torrential storm. It had hit suddenly. I’d say it was without warning, but no doubt it’d been on the news and my weather app. Needless to say, I hadn’t had time to eat, let alone check the weather.
Sam
yep. thankfully the boxes were packed in waterproof mailing bags. Sadly, I was not
Zeke
now I’m picturing you in a waterproof mailing bag
My laughter echoed around the room.
Sam
must be difficult, given you don’t know what I look like.
Was I hinting at him to ask me for a description? Or maybe even a picture?
I bit my lip, tense as I waited for his response. When it came through, I was a confusing mixture of disappointed and relieved.
Zeke
that’s the beauty of the mailing bag—if it’s over your head, I don’t need to know what you look like
it’s a shame I don’t know where you live though. I totally would’ve come and helped you
Help. The concept was foreign to me. It was something I did for others, not what people did for me.
Zeke
I’m not hinting for your address by the way
I promise, I’m not crazy or anything
I snorted. If either of us was claiming the crazy label, it was definitely me.
Sam
it’s fine, I managed lol. My Kia can fit a surprising amount of packages.
Zeke
won’t the post office come and collect them from you?
I mean, they could. It wasn’t like I was unaware that they offered this service; I’d used it several times before.
At the moment though, the thought of a stranger at my door made me shiver. It might be hard fucking work loading fifty book boxes into my Kia Sportage before driving the twenty minutes to the post office and repeating it at the other end, but truthfully? On days when my OCD was bad, it was preferable to the alternative—a shit-tonne of additional anxiety and compulsions.
Sam
meh, it’s just as easy for me to take them down there.
Zeke
even when it’s pissing down?
I rolled my eyes.
Sam
I’m not made of sugar, Zeke. I’m British. bit of rain won’t stop me
Zeke
that was more than a bit of rain. Ducks floated past my window at one point.
well, just like the ducks, I survived. The packages are off to their rightful owners. It was easier this way
easier than having someone come to your house?
This was something I’d learned about Zeke over the past few weeks—he was like a dog with a bone over certain things. If he didn’t understand my thinking, he’d often ask questions until he did.
Strangely, I didn’t mind it. It showed he was…interested. In me.
It’d been a long time since that had happened.
Sam
yup. Today it was easier to do it myself than to have someone else collect them
Zeke
sometimes your logic confuses me
I smiled wryly. He wasn’t the only one—I spent most of my life being confused by my brain.
Sam
that’s OCD for you
There was a long pause before the bubbles appeared on Zeke’s side of the chat.
Zeke
you have OCD?
I froze. Shit, hadn’t I mentioned that before? It wasn’t something I hid. I might have been able to mask it pretty well, but I wasn’t ashamed of it. Unfortunately, it was as much a part of me as my green eyes and dark, unruly hair.
I swallowed hard, my hands hovering an inch above the keyboard. Would Zeke freak out? Would he decide I was too difficult to be friends with, the same way everyone else did?
We hadn’t been talking long, but it’d hurt if that happened. He’d given me a dose of happiness I hadn’t been expecting, and now I was oddly dependant on it.
Steeling my spine, I typed out my response, hitting send before I could change my mind.
Sam
yep. diagnosed at 24
That had been a fucking trip in itself. Up until a decade ago, I’d truly believed that I was insane, and it was only a matter of time before someone else realised and locked me up in a psych ward.
When a doctor had first mentioned OCD, I’d laughed. Like, full-on laughed in his face. I wasn’t obsessively clean. I didn’t get upset if something wasn’t perfectly centred or at a right angle. There was no way I had OCD.
That had been the day I’d learned just how fucked up the media’s portrayal of OCD truly was. It wasn’t a personality quirk. It wasn’t something cute that kept your space neat.
It was the name of the nightmare that had dogged me for as long as I could remember.
To my surprise, the little dot that showed Zeke was online didn’t vanish. Barely a second passed before another message popped up from him.
Zeke
I don’t really know a lot about OCD
A smile lifted my lips. Huh, looked like he wasn’t running just yet.
Sam
most people don’t, tbh. it’s very different to how it’s portrayed in the media
Zeke
I can imagine. most things are. The media never seems to change, even with passing decades.
My brows twitched. Passing decades?
Sam
are you a history/sociology buff?
Zeke
umm…kinda I guess. Goes hand in hand with what I do.
I could ask him what he did, right? He knew about my job. It was polite, not overstepping. Online friends exchanged this sort of information all the time.
‘ Why does it matter? You just told him you have OCD, for fuck’s sake. If there’s a line, you’ve gone way past it already. He’s probably never going to talk to you again after this anyway. ’
Honestly, would love to be able to make one simple decision without questioning every fucking angle.
Taking a deep breath before typing a reply.
Sam
what do you do? I don’t think you’ve ever told me
I sat back in the chair, watching with growing confusion as it showed Zeke typing. Then stopping. Typing again. Stopping.
What was he doing? Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to tell me what he did for a living.
The longer he took, the louder my thoughts became.
‘ You shouldn’t have asked. ’
‘ It’s crossed a boundary. ’
‘ Maybe he’s unemployed and embarrassed. ’
‘ Maybe he’s an old bloke in a nursing home. ’
‘ Maybe he’s a serial killer with a penchant for skin suits. ’
The thoughts swirled faster and faster, tugging me into the centre of the spiral. I fought to stay at the edge, refusing to let it win. If it did, it was likely I’d log out of this game and never open it again.
Yes, really. It didn’t take much to push me over the edge. Something as small as this could set off a chain of compulsions so scary that I’d do anything to stop them in their tracks.
Including putting an end to my conversations with Zeke.
Knowing how desperately I didn’t want to do that, I grabbed the notebook I kept beside my laptop for this very reason. Flicking to a clean page, I hastily jotted down my thoughts and fears on one side.
‘ I made things weird. ’
‘ Zeke won’t want to talk to me ever again. ’
‘ My brain is going to ruin this for me, just like it ruins everything else in my life. ’
I stared at that final one and swallowed hard. No. Not today. Not this. I wasn’t going to let it.
Pushing forward, I wrote down the rational responses.
Asking what someone does for a living isn’t weird—it’s part of small talk.
Zeke mentioned his job first.
I am not my OCD.
I underlined the final one a few times before rereading the short list. By the time I was done, the thoughts were quieter. Less overwhelming.
And I had a reply from Zeke waiting.