ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

011

Timothée's face was swollen, I was tipsy and emotionally drained. Our Saturday night was interrupted by events of which I felt were my fault, making me want to just call it a night.

We were soon jolted out of whatever spell we were under in the bathroom. The club was still busy and I resorted to texting Lara that I was heading home for the night. Timothée did the same; he told me he was with his friends from high school, whom he texted to say he was leaving.

On the way to the subway, the two of us were lost in lingering silent questions, the sounds of the city filling up the space as we walked. We didn't actually begin talking until we sat next to each other on the subway, when we passed the stop leading to the venue where Timothée saw Tyler The Creator in high school. This led to more small talk, soon forgetting that there was any empty space at all.

His hand rested on my bare knee, his shoulder against mine, and I recognized the protective force I'd felt with him weeks earlier.

He asked me where I was originally from, knowing I didn't grow up in New York, to which I responded that I was from San Francisco, and only made the cross-country move after high school to study journalism at NYU.

He told me about his childhood, the spectacle of his high school years. He caught himself, saying "I don't want to fall into the trope of being that person who misses high school," but still, I watched his eyes light up as he talked about his years at LaGuardia.

"I did a little acting back in my day," I slipped. He turned to me, a surprised grin on his face. "Really?"

I told him about how I, too, attended a performing arts high school, and was in the musical theatre program. Acting and musical theatre were things I would always love, but ended up leaving in the past as I went to college. Still, I began telling him all about my favorite productions and main roles I'd had; how high school sucked of course, because it was high school, but memories of the arts would stay with me forever.

"Aren't you full of surprises," he said.

"What's next for you?" I asked, trying to ask meaningful questions through my fatigue, the subway nearing our stop.

"Well, I'm gonna go home and lay a fat ice pack on my face..."

"No," I giggled, and I felt his body inching closer to mine, his arm resting around my shoulders as he let out a laugh. "Your career," I said.

He hesitated, then gave a smile. "I do have some projects lined up for this year. Can't really talk about some of them yet, but it's exciting. I'm - I really get to do a lot for being so young. It's overwhelming, but exciting." He seemed to catch himself before going on a tangent.

"That's really great. I'm excited for you."

He grinned. "Just glad I get to be home for a while before I get going again."

And just as I thought to ask him when exactly he'd be "going again," the subway came to a stop.

"Here's us," he said.

We'd both be going in separate directions. Once we stepped onto the platform, we stood in front of each other for a moment. Maybe a few moments. It felt like hours. The two of us stood in silence with one another, not knowing if it was because there was nothing to say, or perhaps just too much. I held my denim jacket in my arms, my makeup a sweaty aftermath. Some yards away, a subway busker played a jazz tune on the saxophone.

He was developing black around his eye. His nose finally stopped bleeding, and the cut on his eyebrow was beginning to scab. Luckily nothing was broken or horribly injured enough to need an ER run, but guilt lingered around me like a puddle.

"Are you going to be okay?" I asked in nearly a whisper.

"I'm fine. I'm just glad you're okay," he said, concerned.

I stared at the ground, not wanting to think of what could've happened had Timothee not appeared out of nowhere tonight. I let out a chuckle and looked up to meet his eyes again.

"It was nice seeing you again."

He smiled at me, and we were keeping eye contact for probably a couple more years, when he took a small step forward and rested his lips on my forehead for a few seconds, hands on my shoulders. And I melted.

He took the short step back, hands stuffed in his pockets as he stared at his feet. Even in the dull light of the subway station, I could see his ripe blushing face. I realized I was blushing, too, and stared at my feet likewise, before we both took our leave for the night.

As I walked home, jacket wrapped around me, I recalled him asking if I wanted him to walk me home. Of course, I'd told him no; his face was bruised and swollen and he needed to go straight home. But selfishly, what would've been the harm in telling him yes?

I didn't know what it was, but whenever I was with him, no matter how bad things could be, everything felt so good. I'd just noticed it that night, while I cried and cleaned up his wounded face, and we'd both giggled through all of it.

It all feels so good with him, and it's so terrible. I can't let myself become close to him. I can't afford to be scared of anything again. God, it was already such a scary year before this, and I can't afford for anything like that to happen again.

Maybe it's the impulsiveness, the one-night hookup routine, my tendencies to indulge too heavily. Almost like I'm self-medicating. Maybe I need to put a stop to it for a while.

Because if it wasn't for my impulsive decision making, I wouldn't have met Timothée, and I wouldn't be scared of something so good, yet so bad, yet so good, happening to me.

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author's note

I'M #11 UNDER TIMOTHEE CHALAMET LOL WAT

xx - fleur