Markiplier Imagines

73 // OCD

The first time I saw her, everything in my head went quiet. All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing pictures just disappeared.

She'd always close her eyes and imagine the days and nights passing in front of her. It was fascinating if I really began to think about it.

She loved the random things I was obsessed about, like how it took me a rather long time to get to her house because all of the cracks in the sidewalk to her house, and the driveway leading up to it; the shape of the bushes in her garden not being the same shape; the way I had to make sure I kissed her eighteen times each day, and twenty-four on Wednesdays.

She'd said that it made me, me, and when she saw me obsess about it, she would only smile a small smile; it was a smile that I didn't obsess over  didn't worry about being the same size each and every time she let it grace her lips.

And when we finally moved in together, she'd said that she'd always feel safe because I definitely locked the door eighteen times. Then, she'd sit in bed and watch me go over the invisible checklist in my head, trying to make sure I did everything that was necessary before lulling off to sleep. She'd watch me turn the lights off and on, five minutes apart, exactly six times before pulling the covers back and lying next to her.

But, when I slept with her, I didn't care about my position, as long as it was near her in some way; I just didn't want to be on the opposite end of the bed as her, it wouldn't feel right there.

Another thing I did was watch her mouth when she'd talk; each time she said something, her lips would take a different shape. When she'd say she loved me, her lips would curl up at the edges and her the bottom of her two front teeth would show ever-so-slightly behind her top lip.

She was something that I loved to see every day, and if I didn't get eighteen kisses, I wouldn't be okay by that night.

Then one morning, when I was trying to get the perfect goodbye kiss, she'd just leave, saying that I was making her late for work. When she said I love you, her mouth was a straight line. She'd started saying I was taking up too much of her time with my antics.

Just a week prior, she'd started sleeping at her mother's place, completely avoiding me. She'd say that she shouldn't have let me get so attached to her – that everything about us was a mistake.

But how could it be a mistake that I don't have to wash my hands after I touch her? How could it be a mistake that I don't need to worry about her touching anything in my house? How could it be a mistake that I can't stop thinking about her?

Love is not a mistake. 

She was not a mistake.

We were not a mistake.