ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

042

There's no text when I wake up the next day, so I pull the covers over my head and sleep for two more hours.

When I wake again, I have a headache, and it's the only reason that I later get out of bed, after pulling my legs to my chest, massaging my temples with my index fingers. Today's my day off, at the very least.

Of all the times already that I've been so stupid and pushed him away, this has been the worst one. This one is like a weight that envelops me from head to toe, a pain that pulsates through my chest. It is a horrible reflex I have, and all because I don't want to get hurt— yet I still end up doing it all myself anyways. All for the sake of not wanting to get hurt, of trying to convince myself that I'm bulletproof and I can fend for myself, and it still fucking hurts.

After managing to pull myself out of bed, I meander to the kitchen, mechanically pouring ground coffee into a paper filter and turning on the brewer. I slide to the tile floor, pulling my legs to my chest while I watch the water dripping into the pot. Some minutes later, I pour it into a mug. It's strong in taste and black as tar. I quickly down two aspirin with it.

Lara's bedroom door is cracked open and I forget whether or not she had to leave this morning. I find her bedroom empty after lightly knocking. I don't like being alone in the apartment today.

I set my coffee mug on my nightstand and crawl back into bed.

I have an article due in a few days, but it can wait. I'll have more time, and I don't need to do it today. But maybe if I'd actually had to go to work at Robbers, I might've had something to distract me.

I know I'll be okay. I have to keep telling myself that, even though they're just words right now, and I don't even believe them. This is temporary, and I am a whole and complete person, even though I don't feel like one today.

But Timothée isn't just anyone.

I know I will be okay, I know it, I know it, I know it. I don't need anyone. I'm strong and I have myself and I'm okay. But the absence of vibrations from my phone, the absence of anything from Timothée makes me feel like I've been ripped in two, and just for today, I'd like for everything to be shut out for a while.

**********

The day isn't all vacant, however, because in the evening, I'm attending an art show thrown by the New York Muse, hosted at the Museum of Modern Art. It's a party the publication throws at the start of each summer, and the new interns are briefly named. A handful of celebrities and elite are usually in attendance, and despite the fact that I feel like tearing out my insides, I've been looking forward to this day for a while, and couldn't be more excited for tonight. And not to mention, the temporary distraction it'll be.

As I'm getting ready, I can't help but remember that I was going to send Timothée a picture of this outfit — a formal, black romper with long lace sleeves and a discreet but plummeting neckline, one I'd been saving for a special occasion. I choose strappy black high heels to wear with it, curl my hair enough so that it looks like I did something with it, and decide on a light smokey eye for my makeup.

Lara's my plus-one tonight, making me all the more excited. She wears a short off-the-shoulder red dress, her braids pulled half-up into a bun atop her head.

When we arrive at the museum, there's press surrounding the area, due to the high caliber of the event and the A-list celebrities in attendance. It's intimidating at first, knowing that I've somehow become part of such a high-status ordeal, but nonetheless, I'm relishing in the opportunity.

Lara squeezes my hand, and I hear her say, "holy shit, this is huge."

At the entrance, I flash my intern pass at the security guard before entering, identifying Lara as my plus one. The event worker finds our names on the guest list. And once we're inside, it's like a dream.