I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

Living with OCD is difficult. But, if it's possible, what's harder than living with it is finding someone able to live with it with you.


3. Shelves

I like book shops. Row after row, all near silent. So silent, you can hear a page turning, a clear of the throat, a sniff from the other side of the room. Every book placed onto the shelf with such careful precision, every person taking the time to ensure the pages remain uncreased. Each line in every book is perfectly straight, each sentence with impeccable grammar. The bookshop is my home, The complete opposite to my chaotic, unorganised office at work. Heaven and hell put into context.

It's become part of my routine. Even if I don't need a book, don't want one, the slightly ajar door beckons. In winter, I feel the gust of warm air as I pass; in summer, a cool, inviting breeze. As soon as I leave the loud, crowded street, the real world seems miles away.

In one of the far corners, there are large leather chairs. I don't mind that each one of them is a slightly different shade of faded red, nor that one has a broken spring on the right hand side. There's a slight rip in the leather on one of the arms too- peeling slightly, revealing the white underneath. I don't mind. It shows the countless others, who have sat, book in hand, oblivious to the world, for hours and hours, like I am now. Avidly turning the page, engrossed in stories I long to be in, characters I aspire to be.

My own world seems greyscale in comparison for long after, but it's worth it, for those few hours that I can forget.

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