Seven times, seven times, seven times—she had to do everything in sevens.

Meredith's brain was hardwired by obsessive demands to perform her compulsions in a predictable, continuous sequence of sevens. It always had to be sevens. For example, if she didn't take exactly seven paper towels in the bathroom at work, the next woman to come in after her would automatically believe she was a creep.

It was unexplainable. It didn't make sense. All it had to do was hold the proper amount of power over her.

Seven paper towels was such a goddamn waste.

Meredith's face flushes as when her co-worker passes by. There were only four paper towels up in there. She had tried to find them, forcing her hand up into the jagged mouth of the paper towel dispenser. However, she was shorted.

Can people read her mind?

She's not sure. Now, she's worried about her mental health, but she worries about that every day. On the way back to her cubicle, feeling like a certified creep, she tries to pack her emotions back up in a mental cardboard box. They deserve to be sealed away for the rest of forever.