Midnight rings, the telephone – they were always some of her favourite lyrics, but Emma hates calling people late at night unless it's an emergency. This is not what she would consider an emergency, but still . . . there really is no one else.

She dials Will's number, and waits for the click that indicates he's answered. Part of her hopes for the answering machine – in fact, her breath quickens at the thought of talking to Will after all this time.

Six months of semi-normal. Normal because Carl's OCD, too. Being a dentist has given him an obsession with good oral hygiene; she'd never met someone who brushed their teeth more than she does. He was fine with her constant scrubbing with Lysol wipes and dousing his hands in Purell. They both had a whiff of antiseptic about them; she was comfortable with him because he was a doctor. He knew about germs on a pathological level. They'd read his medical textbooks and indulge her illness, and for that, she loved him.

But though she loved him for many reasons, she wasn't in love with him. For all Carl was, in the end, he was safe – he was a doctor, and he was there to help her cope.

She ended it tonight. He wasn't upset, and now . . . Emma realizes that this may have been a mistake.

Before, she was convinced that being loved by anyone was enough. She knew what an inconvenience she was – to her family, her friends, and any boyfriend. She was an inconvenience to everyone, and she knew the best she could hope for was someone to put up with her for more than an hour without getting tired of her obsessions.

Carl was that person – more than Ken, more than Will. Now, though, Emma realizes that it's not enough to have the support. You have to have the spark. And as her own sexuality awakened under the comfort of just being understood, she knew that what she had with Carl – the antiseptic lovemaking, his careful, bland ways of making sure she remained a virgin – it wasn't passionate, it wasn't love, and it wasn't enough.

And now, she hears Will's slight intake of breath on the other end of the phone as he answers, and stupidly, she realizes she forgot to dial the special code to block her caller ID. Shit.

"Hey, Em."

After six months, his voice is the same. His voice sends a frisson of excitement down her spine. But it's different, now – it's not a blind crush, or a desperate sort of silly notice-me love. It's just . . . nostalgia, and longing, for that feeling and this man.

"Hey," she breathes, and angrily wipes a sudden tear from her eye. "I'm sorry; I really shouldn't be calling . . ."

"Well, you wouldn't if it wasn't an emergency, Emma. Are you all right?"

The simple question shouldn't cause this reaction. She sniffles unsuccessfully and reaches for Kleenex. "Well, I thought . . . I just . . . I wanted someone to talk to, actually. And it's late . . . my parents won't answer the phone after eleven."

His voice is no-nonsense; he's not interested in excuses. "Cut it, Emma. Why are you calling? I haven't had more than a three-word conversation with you for six months."

She sighs, shakily, and his voice softens. "You've ended it with Carl."

It's not even a question, and she nods, forgetting he can't see her. "Yes. Yes, I ended it tonight."

"Well, Em, I knew he wouldn't get it . . ."

She cuts him off, her voice cold. "I ended it, Will. Not him. Me. I ended it."

There's a pause, and she imagines him on the couch, one leg crossed over another, maybe wearing those soft grey pajama pants she loves so much. They're so soft, threadbare, like cashmere, but so thin that a simple pull of the fabric will rip a hole right through.

"Why?"

It's a fair question. She doesn't answer, and he sighs. "Was it . . . the issues?"

He always referred to them as "the issues". As if they were separate unto themselves; as if they had a different life about them. And they do, somewhat; Emma often feels separate from her OCD. Sometimes she can't believe that this is her life. And sometimes, she can't imagine life without them – the issues.

"No, surprisingly." She kicks at one of her shoes, lined up by the hall table, and gets annoyed, suddenly. "It isn't always me, Will. Sometimes it's other people and their issues. Sometimes my understanding only goes so far for other people."

He apologizes; he always does. "I'm sorry."

"Well." She doesn't say anything for a minute, and he breathes evenly until he finds another question to ask.

"So . . . I guess I'm not sure why you're calling."

Emma doesn't want to say it. She's done a lot of self-improvement in the last months; standing up for herself, becoming more confident, and expressing her wants and needs without worrying about scaring the people she cares about. But there's still stigma, talking to Will.

She says it anyway.

"I miss you. I just wanted to talk to someone, and I wanted that person to be you."

Her honesty is simple. He doesn't say anything, and then she breaks down.

"I just wanted to be happy. I wanted someone who wasn't going to focus on my problems. In the end, it wasn't enough – it was all about indulging, and my OCD isn't me. I want to be loved for me, not for a similar mental illness."

"Was he . . . ?"

"Yes. He has OCD. But Will, that's not why I dated him. I wanted another perspective. He was good looking. And I thought maybe it'd be easier to be myself."

Will sounds hurt. "You could always be yourself with me. I encouraged you to be."

"You encouraged me to be someone I wasn't – to find help I wasn't ready for," she shoots back defensively, but stops. She doesn't want a fight.

"I'm sorry," he says simply, and she sighs.

"I am too."

"Listen, Emma. Do you . . . do you need me to come over? Do you want to come here?"

She shakes her head no, and then speaks into the phone. "No. But let's start with lunch tomorrow."

She hears the smile in his voice then.

"It's a date."

After she hangs up the phone, she feels it – that hint of excitement, and smiles, too.

This time, it will be different – this time, she's allowing herself to fall under his command, on her terms.