ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

051

"You stay here, I'll be fine, I promise," I'd said to him before slipping out for sun and fresh air. I keep to a nearby walking route aided by my iPhone map, hardly familiar with the foreign ground and surroundings. Sailboats are docked and the air is misted by ocean salt, and despite there hardly being a cloud in sight, there is a cool embracing breeze. I walk along the concrete sidewalk, hands in the front pocket of my sweater, the hood over the snapback on my head. A constant stream of tourist crowds render me nearly invisible. I push my sunglasses up my nose.

The news was mostly contained, save a handful of entertainment journalists and Buzzfeed employees poking mostly harmless fun at Timothée Chalamet being caught with a girl. My studies and career experience were industry and pop-culture heavy, so while I know there's now a permanent stain on future Google searches of my name, I have my worries contained as well, for now. It's displacing to be in another country during this volcanic eruption, and not to mention several time zones away from the people I care about, and who are likely more confused than I.

I scape the tourist-ridden waterfront and find a spot on the ground. I sit on the concrete and let my legs dangle above the water. I take my phone out, skip through songs until my airpods play a HAIM song, and tap my messages, grateful that I managed to turn off the social media notifications. My breathing turns shallow while I scroll through texts, some from college friends or people I haven't spoken to in years. "You're officially my claim to fame!" "TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET ARE YOU KIDDING ME??"

I still don't even feel like talking about it with anyone. Not until the shock begins to subside or I manage to wrap my head around a quarter of this. It's all very loud. My precocious younger brother may be the only one who understands.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

"Mars." I hear him exhale.

"Is now a bad time?"

"Not at all, I just got off work..."

"Julian, listen, I'm fine. Everything is fine."

"Okay," he says after a pause. It seems like he's trying to piece things together, like me, but he just exhales again and repeats, "okay."

"I know. It's a mess. I'm sorry about this."

"No, don't be sorry. As long as you're okay. I know you're fine. Mom's just kind of frazzled, I think she's dug through a lot of...the articles and stuff. You call her yet?"

After my silence, he continues, "Okay. I'm sorry for freaking her out. I should've gotten the full picture from you first. What...what happened?"

I give context to photographed incidents, explaining the simple beach walk and dinner, and that we'd seen absolutely nothing or no one suspicious. "The photos were shopped around and sold pretty quickly. And then..." My mouth mimics an explosion sound.

"So he had nothing to do with it, then."

"No, absolutely not. He had no idea. I was the one who dragged him out of bed that morning. He's really upset, too. He feels responsible."

"So then. This is for real, then?" he asks, a shift in his tone.

I press my lips together when a smile catches me off guard. I nod even though he can't see me. "Yeah," I say. "It's for real."

"And he's a decent human being, right? Not another scumbag?"

I chuckle. "Trust me."

Later I call my mom, and she makes it through without crying. I assure her that I'm fine, everything is fine, no it wasn't on purpose, yes it'll die down, yes Timothée may be the most extraordinary person I've known and he looks forward to meeting her, and yes I'm still on my birth control.

It's mid-afternoon. A low grumble in my stomach reminds me I haven't eaten all day, so I map out directions to the local bakery we've frequented and purchase a fluffy croissant. I walk along the rest of the oceanside walkway, taking bites of my pastry, laying low for the rest of the day.

When I return, Timmy is sat on the edge of the bed with his laptop, and he places it to the side upon seeing me. I make a brisk approach and throw my arms around his neck, surrendering to the giggle that escapes my closed mouth. My eyes are squeezed shut, grinning as I feel him envelop me, sinking into the soft affection of his sweatshirt.

"Hey," he breathes out in a doting chuckle, clearly startled. I move my hands to cradle his face and cover it in kisses. I feel his face light up in my hands, his shoulders fluttering as he exhales chuckles. His arms circle my waist and slide up my back.

"Hi," I giggle, revering the radiant green hue in his eyes.

"What?" he questions my demeanor.

I kiss either side of his face. "Nothing," I say, shaking my head. He's smiling and it's so handsome, bewitching, angelic. My heart pulsates. He is so beautiful.

******

That night we lie in bed, on our sides and facing each other under darkness. His fingers graze the skin on my arm. I'm fixed on the glowing curves of his cheekbone and fluttering lashes. His sprawled-out curls tickle my forehead. We talk about tomorrow. He says he can't wait for me to meet Luca. Weighing above us is the lingering reminder that I leave in two days. Neither of us move to acknowledge it.

"I wish I could go for a drive," I murmur, thinking out loud.

"To clear your head?"

"Small suburban joys. I did that a lot in high school. One of my favorite parts of home."

"You think we would've been friends in high school?" he says after a beat. In the dark I catch his sly, cheeky grin.

I giggle. "Maybe. Probably."

"You were drama-concentrated, so maybe we would've done a play together."

"Maybe. If I'd grown up in New York. Or if you'd attended performing arts high school in the absolute midwest of California."

"But you do end up in New York eventually."

The presence of his body lying inches from mine has become deeply familiar, and yet I am still growing accustomed. The sensation has been incomparable. In my head, I continue to lace words together into verse, poetry, something I haven't written in years. It's been happening for a couple weeks now, filling blank notebook pages and phone notes.

"I am so goddamn lucky," he whispers across the pillow.

I take his hand and hold it under my chin.

"I'm sorry. For all those mornings..." I say a moment later, voice trailing off, sore at the thought of my self-sabotaging. All the mornings I woke up terrified at the thought of anything that would mildly resemble the abusive blueprint I was given, the exhausting notion of surrendering myself again for the chance to love and be loved. Now I can't even remember what I felt. The brick walls I'd built up are now dust.

"No. No," he stops me. "It's okay," he says, inching closer, hand brushing hair from my face, thumb grazing my cheek, eyebrows furrowing. "It's okay," he says again. I nod, resting my hand over his, letting the subject evaporate. I press my lips to the back of his hand, still locked in mine. He kisses my forehead, then rests his against mine, our bodies enveloped in each other. I listen to the still, patterned breaths leaving his body.

"How am I going to sleep without you," I whisper later, accidentally thinking out loud.

He squeezes my hand in assurance. "Not for long."

******

too lazy to edit rn if there are errors or awk sentences please ignore <3333