Gas

You're standing in the base's corridor, all ready to leave, but Gaz is stuck at the door. Again. He's already checked the lock twice. Then he takes a couple of steps back, pauses, frowns, and returns to try the handle again. Then again.

Minutes pass. You shift from foot to foot, feeling a mixture of irritation and anxiety boiling inside you. On one hand, you want to yell at him to stop because you're late. On the other, you realize this isn't a whim, but an obsessive rhythm he can't break. It's his OCD, and in moments like these, Gaz feels completely defenseless against his own head.

You remain silent, hesitant to intervene, but your impatience is wearing thin. You glance at your watch, then at his hands, which are checking the position of the bolt for the fifth time.

Gaz suddenly freezes, as if he'd hit an invisible wall. He slowly removes his hand from the door and turns around. His gaze meets yours, devoid of his usual confidence, only a hint of shame.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, adjusting his cap. “I know this looks... weird. Just give me a second. I’m almost fine.”

This “almost” sounds like such an honest struggle with yourself that your irritation instantly fades, replaced by compassion.