ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

012

Days pass, then a week or two. I want to reach out and hear from him, but there's no way. Maybe through Instagram, though it would likely get lost as he didn't follow me. Maybe through the dating app.

I stand behind the bar at Robbers, steaming milk, ringing out customers and slinging cappuccinos, all while wishing I could feel the same electric hope from that one day, the door opening and his tall figure emerging. But each day, there's nothing. He doesn't come. Every time, I feel stupid for just hoping.

He'd said he'd gone out of his way that day. Maybe it was a one-time thing. Perhaps he doesn't see much use in coming to see me anymore, given that I do clam up at the mere sight of him. There's also the fact that he got bloodied in a fight because of me. Recalling it makes my stomach knot in anxious guilt.

Maybe he felt the aura of what we had, as I had; that it was somehow covered in bad luck, like the electricity and flirting glances were only the product of sinful desire. The bad luck that surrounds my life, radiating off of me.

Maybe now I'm just a past bedroom lover to him. He might have moved along. Good for him. However I, to be frank, can't stop thinking about him.

A couple days ago, I was on the couch in the small living room working on another internship application, when I remembered his shirt. I forgot to bring it up to him. It had somehow made its way behind my laundry basket, like a historical relic, lost in the sands of time. It still smelled like him.

Of course, my life has kept moving along, regardless. I keep picking up all the hours I can at Robbers, applying for internship after job after internship, weekly appointments with my therapist over webcam. It feels as though I am in a transition in life, an in-between; having just graduated, having just gotten out of the scariest experience of my life. I think life will pick back up again, soon. For now, I'm working and applying for writing jobs. Living in a small apartment in New York with my best friend, spending most of my free time with her.

Sometimes we'll explore the new hole-in-the-wall brunch places, or ride to the city and take strolls through parks. Walk past Broadway and look at the big signs of the shows we wish we could afford to see. Reminds me of the high school dreams I had of being on Broadway.

I've been sober since that club night two weeks ago. I'd never had that problematic of a relationship with alcohol, but I didn't want it to start, either. Mom always told me alcoholism ran in the family, and I don't want to end up facing irreparable consequences for any small slip. I thought it would be best to take a break from any impulsive decision-making and intoxicating situations. My therapist agreed during my appointment last week.

Timothée, however. I can't seem to give him up. I am on my couch, filling out a job application on my laptop with a cup of coffee next to me, when I once again remember his bruised face and how I'd never thought to ask him how he's doing. I never asked for his number, and I wasn't sure I wanted it. As much as I thought about him, I didn't want him so accessible to me.

That night was all my fault. I mean, it wasn't, in the large scope of things. But he got injured because he was defending me. Or because of toxic masculinity. Whatever. He didn't have to, but he did.

I open the App Store. Search. And re-download.