Maggie didn’t think she had a problem. 

She was just a normal teenage girl who preferred things that were even, orderly, and divisible by two.

It wasn’t odd. Just simply an appreciation for patterns.

It wasn’t weird for her to be unable to sleep unless she did her nighttime routine twice. She was just thorough. And the photos she took of everything she did? She was just a cautious person making sure she didn’t somehow leave her hair straightener on after checking it was off twice, or four times.

Maggie’s alarm rang every day at exactly 7:04 am.

It vibrated twice and then would go off a second time at 7:06. 

When she sat up, she moved her right leg down first, then her left, and counted the steps she took towards her bathroom door, always an even number, always the same number. Her morning routine took exactly 20 minutes. She always did it twice.

Once her routine was over, she walked back to her closet, the same number, always even, and picked up the clothes she had already chosen at the beginning of the week, preparing herself for the school day.

Was Maggie’s routine a little excessive? Maybe, but it worked for Maggie. It scratched something in her brain, quieted down whatever in her mind kept telling her that something would go wrong if she didn’t follow these compulsions. Her routine grounded her, gave her control.

She categorized her days as either good or bad. Good days were those with an even number of letters, such as Monday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Thursdays were her favorite because they meant good days four times in a row, so each Thursday was a good day.

So when she woke up on Thursday, and her phone alarm hadn’t gone off, Maggie knew this would be a very, very bad day. 

She reached for her phone, accidentally grabbing it with her left hand, then immediately jerked back, switching to grab it with her right instead. 

It’s 9:05 am. 

She was late. 

Maggie hadn’t been late to anything since she learned that counting by twos calmed down her brain. She stood up hurriedly, but mistakenly stood with her left leg first. She sat down. Tried again. Now the right foot first. 

She rushed to her bathroom, counting her steps, but the number was off. Not the number it always was. She was supposed to be at school at 8:00, especially today, because she has an important presentation she could not miss. 

She continued with her morning routine, with clenched teeth, trying desperately to shake off the impending feeling of anxiety and wrongness.

By the time she made it out the door, it was 9:35 am.

The drive to school was even worse. The usual route she took, which has just the right amount of right turns and stop signs, was closed off, forcing her to take a late route, which added exactly 9 minutes to her journey. 

When Maggie arrived at school, her mood had progressively worsened; her day was going terribly, and her only saving grace is that her presentation went well. 

Maggie was scheduled to present in front of her teacher, Mr. Howard, for the opportunity to attend a critical conference she had been looking forward to for months.

The conference is highly exclusive, so Mr. Howard only selects four students each year, and each student must apply and present their case as to why they should be chosen. This conference would open up multiple doors for Maggie, including connections and internships. She walked towards Mr. Howard’s class, her presentation on repeat inside her head. She was ready. 

She stopped in front of his door. Attached to his door right beside his name plate was a note. 

She reached for it, her eyes widening in disbelief as she read it. 

In the note, Mr. Howard stated that, due to unforeseen circumstances, Maggie would not be able to present today; instead, she would present on Wednesday. 

Maggie’s hand began to shake, and she gripped the paper, clenching her eyes shut. She took a deep breath out, looking at the note in her hands again, and very slowly ripped it in half.

She turned away and took a step forward. Left leg first.

She began to walk away angrily.

No footsteps were counted.

Instead, she’s thought about the passive-aggressive email she would be sending to Mr.Howard.