Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

5 | Falling...

VERA

_

I STILL COULDN'T WRITE.

Sitting at the edge of my seat, the windows to my apartment pushed open to give me breathing space, I tried to think about the sounds of a market bustling to life. I tried to write something, say something, figure out a reason as to why I was stuck—but to no avail did an answer come.

I didn't even know if I wanted to write about a market, not to mention anything close to one. I tried to focus on the sellers. Maybe remembering the sound of that man's voice, the one who sold the fish, would help me start a few sentences on a blank page, but I found myself getting distracted by something else.

By Timothée.

I tried to think about the lady with her herbs, but all I could think about was the way his fingers felt contrasted against my back—a warm print that I could still feel lingering if I thought hard enough. I tried to think about the apple seller, who looked upon our conversation and sighed in satisfaction as he saw the Euro in the jar, but then all I could think about were the hands that held a fruit to his lips, daring me to stop him.

And if anything, it just made it worse.

It wasn't that I couldn't write, it was that I didn't want to. I'd rather let myself fall onto my bed and fall asleep remembering the way I felt in the market.

I had headphones tucked into my ears tightly, playing 60s tunes as I tried to drown out Toni's snores from the room over, and I closed my eyes. Sinking into the back of my chair, I propped my feet up on the desk and got to thinking.

'Everybody plays the fool, sometime,' Cuba Gooding Sr. sang into my ears, his remastered version of 'Everybody Plays The Fool' trickling through the speakers.

I'd laugh at how relevant that sounded in this case—with me wondering whether or not I'm crazy for my inability to stop thinking about a certain boy—but I didn't laugh, because that would mean I was laughing at myself. And I had a fair amount of self-respect to uphold. Just a fair amount.

But then I found myself staring out the window blankly, the orange hues of the sunset streaked onto the walls of the room, and pitching me into a dreamy, gold haze as I pondered whether or not this whole thing was a good idea.

'Your ability to reason is swept away,' Cuba sang, loud and clear into my ears.

Well, that was strangely accurate.

Ignoring the music once more, I slid my feet off the desk to replace them with my elbows instead. From this position I could see the sidewalk across the street from our housing unit; a bar full of people laughing over their conversations, a woman with a rowdy pup that went barking at the lamplights, and a bicyclist yapping into their phone as they turned down the street and into an alleyway.

But what I couldn't take my eyes off was the couple sitting on the sidewalk curb, sharing a half-unwrapped sandwich. They passed it back and forth, murmuring inaudible secrets to each other as they took turns biting into the bread of the meal in their hands. And while I understood it was fairly creepy to be watching strangers, I couldn't help but feel sick looking at them.

Even from this high up, I could see the glimmer in their eyes as they laughed, ignoring the city around them and only focusing on each other. I didn't know their life story, but I didn't need to. It was something I could see.

A love I wish I had.

A love I wish I could write about.

But I can't write about something I've never had the chance to know, because then I'd just be telling a pathetic lie in place of a great novel. I couldn't stand lying. Not when it came to literature, because a good book should be about the hidden truth left for the reader to find on their own. And if I wanted to write about love, I'd have to find it too.