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5:30 A.M.  On the dot.  No sooner.  No later.  And especially not on an odd numbered minute.

I sat up in my bed.  Swung my legs to the side and let them fall to the floor.  Right slipper first.  Always first.  Then left slipper second.  Always second.

I took soft steps to the bathroom, although there wasn’t anyone in my apartment that I would wake.  Though if I were too loud, I would probably startle myself.

30 seconds to brush my teeth.  Rinse.  Floss.  Rinse.  Mouthwash.  Rinse.  My mouth still felt dirty, so I started the process over.  30 seconds to brush my teeth.  Rinse.  Floss.  Rinse.  Mouthwash.  Rinse.  Still dirty.  30 seconds to brush my teeth.  Rinse.  Floss.  Rinse.  Mouthwash.  Rinse.  Almost there, but not quite.  30 seconds to brush my teeth.  Rinse.  Floss.  Rinse.  Mouthwash.  Rinse.  There.  Perfect.

I got in my shower, dial turned exactly 132 degrees.  18 seconds until the water turns from cold to the perfect temperature.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  As I washed my body, I ended up using the last bit of the soap.  Only then was I sure that I was clean.  I go through a bar of soap a week.  I don’t really like having to spend that much money on soap, but the alternative is to be dirty, a breeding place for hundreds of different bacteria, germs soaking into your skin by the hour...A bar of soap a week seemed to be the better alternative.

Step out right foot first.  Use white towel because it’s Monday.  Pat self immaculately dry.  Put towel back on the rack perfectly even.  Boxers on, right then left.  Pants on, right then left.  Shirt on, right then left.  Dry hair until immaculately dry.  Style until perfect.  If not, take another shower to wash it all off and try again.

Every morning was exactly the same, though I guess on weekends I slept in until 6:30 A.M. so my whole schedule was pushed back exactly an hour.  Routine perfection.  If one thing was out of place, it would ruin my whole day.  I double-checked, triple-checked, quadruple-checked everything.  Did I wash my hands?  Did I put the milk back in the fridge?  Did I turn the shower off?  I couldn’t stop asking myself these questions.  I couldn’t stop doubting myself.  I couldn’t stop seeing germs lurking everywhere and on everything.  I couldn’t stop my brain, though I often wanted to.

Breakfast meal color-coded.  Chopsticks aligned perfectly on the side when not in use. Newspaper folded neatly in the center of the table for when I decided to pick it up.  After I’m finished, dishes are washed thoroughly until not a speck is visible.  They are all put back in their proper place in the kitchen.

Before I left, I checked all the windows four times.  Electrical appliances four times as well.  Lights six times.  Shoes, right foot first.  Coat, right arm first.  When I exited my apartment, I had to lock and unlock the door eight times until I was satisfied that it was completely locked.  

Two hours later, I finally stepped outside.

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He was not part of my routine.

At least, I didn’t plan for him to become part of it.

He was just a stranger who was sitting in my spot.  And I always sat in that spot.  I sat in that spot for exactly thirty minutes to watch the sunrise before heading to work.  I always sat in that exact spot and crossed my legs, right over left, with my hands folded over my knee and I watched the sun paint colors in the sky.  Everyday.  Today was no exception.  He was just a stranger who was sitting in my spot.

So I just stood there for thirty minutes, eyes boring holes into the newspaper he had spread out in front of him to read.  I figured that he couldn’t see me standing there watching him, or he would have offered some acknowledgement of my existence, maybe ask why I was staring at a random stranger on a bench.  My bench.

But after thirty minutes I left.  Exactly thirty minutes.  I did not get to sit down.  I did not get to watch the sunrise.  And I stepped on a crack in the sidewalk as I left.

The rest of the day was ruined.  Absolutely ruined.  All of it.  Everything went wrong.  Nothing was in order.  Nothing went according to plan.  It was different.  Too different.

And so was the day after that.  And the day after that.  And for days and days after that.

Weeks and weeks.  Every week.

Because he ruined everything.  He messed everything up.  He came into my life and unknowingly forced himself into my routine and there was nothing I could do about it.  He messed everything up and I let him.

The second day, he introduced himself as Kyuhyun.  Just Kyuhyun.  Just once.  I had to say my name four times until it sounded right.  For the next thirty minutes, he addressed me as “Sungmin-sungmin-sungmin-sungmin-ssi.”

The third day, he asked me to sit down beside him on his bench.  His bench.  My bench.  Just a couple days ago it was my bench.  But now it was his bench.  Just like it was his face that I stared at for thirty minutes instead of the sunrise.  His lips that curved up with a slight smirk as he read.  His eyes that shone with a hint of mystery and recklessness.   His name that kept running through my mind the entire day.  At work.  At home.  In my dreams.

The eighth day, he stole my phone so he could put his number in it.

The sixteenth day, he stole my heart.  

He did not live by the numbers.  He did not live by routine.  He did what he wanted, when he wanted.  His mind was not overrun with germs and paranoia and obsession after obsession after obsession.  He could sit on a bench for 30 something minutes, not a care in the world, maybe talking or maybe not.  He wanted each day to be different, wanted each day to be a surprise.  His body hummed with movement and anticipation and excitement.  Spontaneity.  Recklessness.  I wanted to be a part of that spontaneity.  I wanted to be his recklessness.

After a month, I was not worried about leaving the park a few minutes later than I planned.  But I was worried about not spending enough time with him.  That I would not be able to see the shadows from the tree leaves overhead play upon his face.  Or be able to count the number of hairs that glowed like gold in the sun’s rays.  Or memorize exactly how his hand runs through that hair.  Or be able to sit on his bench anymore.  That it would once again become my bench.  Just my bench.

So on the thirty-first day, I asked him out.  It took me six times to say it right.  With every stuttering attempt, the hairpin curve of his lips slowly turned into a full-blown smile, brighter than the rising sun.  He said yes after my third attempt, but I had to keep going.  So he kept saying yes after every one.  Yes.  Yes.  Yes.  Yes, Sungmin-sungmin-sungmin-sungmin-ssi, I will go out with you.

That day, I left five minutes later than I should have.  That day, I took a different path to work than usual.  That day, I stepped on quite a few cracks in the sidewalk.  But if those were what brought me to Kyuhyun in the first place, then maybe I should step on them more often.

.   .   .   .

When I saw him walking towards me, everything in my head went quiet.  I hadn’t quite realized how much he’d already taken over my mind until our first date.  Instead of checking and rechecking my hair, instead of sanitizing and re-sanitizing my hands, instead of thinking and rethinking if I had locked all my doors...it was suddenly just him.  His hair.  His eyes.  His clothes.  His walk.  His smirk.  His voice.

“Sungmin-ssi!”

His beauty.  His perfection.  His lips.  His lips.  His lips.  His lips.  His everything.

He was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.

And he didn’t care if I had to wipe my chair down before I felt comfortable sitting in it.  He didn’t care when I spent more time organizing our food than I did talking to him.  He didn’t care that I asked him how the weather was five times.  He didn’t care if I just stared at him across the table, wondering how someone so imperfect could be so perfect at the same time.  Wondering how this imperfection had maneuvered its way into my routine perfection.  Wondering why I let it happen.

It was when he finally looked into my eyes, his own glinting with mischievousness and taunting me to do something crazy, to be reckless, that I knew why.

Some days he’d drag me from our bench in the morning to the park grass only to spin around and yell at the top of his lungs.  And when I’d complain about the dewy grass now attached to my just-polished shoes, he’d pull me back to our bench and wipe them down for me.

Some days he’d switch the placement of the kimchi and the fish cakes on the restaurant table that I just finished organizing and see how long I could go without noticing.  But then for the rest of the meal, he’d make sure to always set his chopsticks down in a straight line so I wouldn’t have to reach over and fix them.

Some days his hand would linger on my shoulder.  In my hair.  On my back.  And some days he would look like he was reaching for my hand but would grab another handful of popcorn instead.  Or lean in closer and closer, breath ghosting over my lips, before he’d remove an eyelash from my cheek with a smirk on his lips.

And I never worried about the germs on his hands.  Or the saliva on his lips when he them out of nervous habit.  I didn’t worry if he cleaned his apartment before I went there, or who else had sat on his couch and what germs they had brought with them.  Or if his video game collection was stacked in haphazard piles on the floor.  Or if the picture of his family on the wall was just the slightest bit crooked.

No, I never cared when his lips would touch mine, or when his cold, unsanitized hands would sneak up the back of my shirt.  I didn’t care if his bed was unmade when he gently laid me down on it, or if our clothes were left in disorderly piles on the floor.  And I would never, ever tire of his voice in my ear, warm breath weaving stories until I fell asleep in his arms, not caring if I woke up at 8:27 A.M., and just caring that my head was still against his chest.

The world was my disease and he was my cure, my medication.  With every day I spent near him, my carefully polished routine broke more and more.  His touch became more purifying than any of my rituals, for the feel of him on my skin was enough to make me forget that I only used a quarter of a bar of soap to clean myself that day.  Or that I grabbed the towel I used yesterday to dry myself off this morning.  Or that I accidentally used his toothbrush to brush my teeth instead of using my own.

I don’t know if he knew what he was doing.  I don’t know if he noticed the changes in my routine.  I don’t know if he even noticed how much he was crawling into my life.  But neither did I.  It was only when I woke up to the sound of his beating heart for the ninth day in a row that I noticed.  

He had moved into my apartment just as much as he had moved into my heart.

His clothing was shoved into my color-coded drawers, completely disregarding my organizing system.  His medicine, his face wash, his shampoo and conditioner decorated my bathroom with clutter and mis-matched brands.  His shoes, his slippers were now permanent residents by my front door, and my spare key somehow ended up on his keyring.  

And he brought color to my monochrome apartment and spontaneity into my monotonous life.  He brought change and excitement.  He brought love and warmth and safety.  

He stayed through my good days and my bad days.  Held my hand during my anxiety attacks.  Never once blinked an eye when I finally told him that I had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, though I knew it was pretty obvious.  That growing up, my parents had done all they could to help me.  Counselors, doctors, psychologists, hospitals.  Medication after medication after medication.  None of it worked.  And I could see that I was wearing my father down, and I could see the stress that forever laid upon my mother’s shoulders.  I could see that I was taking away my parents’ happy life.  And when I told Kyuhyun that I left as soon as I could, and that my parents never cared to find me after I left...he took his hand away from mine only to bring it up to my face, wiping away the tears that had started to fall.  And he let