When In Rome ► Timothée Chalamet

18 | Losing Track

Y/N

_

The impending doom of the end of the semester was picking at the back of my head.

I shouldn't really have been worried about it, because Timothee and I both lived in New York, but it was still disappointing to leave the beauty of Italy behind us.

I tapped my pencil against the desk, a grin on my face. I could see the boy leaning against the lockers, winking at me through the window. The bell rang shortly, and I jumped up and grabbed my things, eager to embark on our next new adventure.

I was almost halfway out the door when I heard someone call my name.

"Miss L/N?"

I turned around, and saw Professor Enzo sitting by his desk. He waved a hand, gesturing for me to approach him. From outside the door, I saw Timothee raising an eyebrow at the sudden intervention. Sending him a desperate look, I made my way over to my teacher with dread.

"Do you have somewhere to be?" Enzo said, his eyes fluttering over to the boy waiting in the hallway.

"Not urgently," I said, nervously.

"Good," he snapped, placing his hands on the table, "you're a good student, y/n."

"Grazie."

"But..."

I knew there was a but. There had to be a but. There was no reason Professor Enzo would have called me over, because in the month that I had been here, he's never called anyone else over.

"You've become distracted," he continued, "your grades are dropping."

I flinched. I didn't even remember the last time I had checked my grades, which blatantly furthered his point. Enzo sighed, crossing his arms against his chest.

"Out of all of the assignments I've given the class," he explained, "you've only turned in two, which unfortunately were turned in late."

I didn't say anything, my head hung low in embarrassment. I had no explanation, other than the fact that I let myself lose focus from the reason I came to Rome in the first place.

"I'm not sure what's made you so distracted," Enzo questioned, "is there something going on?"

I could feel Timothee's gaze burning into the back of my head, but I prayed he didn't hear what my professor was saying. I wasn't sure if Enzo knew the truth about why I had departed from my academic mindset, but my stomach dropped when he cleared his throat.

"I understand you've taken interest in another student," he said, glancing at the waiting boy behind me, "and I'm not going to tell you to end that interest."

"Sir, this has nothing to do with-"

"Focus. That's all I ask. Put your goals above anything else."

"Professor-"

"I'm assigning you another language essay," he stated, "I've lost confidence in your aspirations, and I need to see if you really want to be here."

"I do, I promise-"

"It's due tomorrow morning. If you can get this done, I'll look into raising your grades. Prove to me you're every bit capable of being the student you first were when you came to Rome. I'm disappointed you've strayed from then."

He slid a sheet of paper across his desk, ESSAY CRITERIA printed in bold letters at the top.

"Destituita," he said, nodding towards the door, "remember your goals."

I hung my head, picking the paper up from the desk. As I made my way towards the lockers, everything seemed out of sorts. The sound of my feet hitting the floor was like a drum, a dreadful beat sounding in my ears.

Timothee smiled when I drew near, but I clutched the paper defensively.

"You ready to go?" he asked, holding out his hand.

I didn't take it, staring at the ground. Don't get me wrong, the only thing I wanted to do was to explore the city with him, taste test gelato flavors, or be surprised by his good cooking, but Professor Enzo's words rang in the back of my head with tantalizing fear.

"Not today," I said softly, shaking my head.

"What was he talking to you about?" he questioned, leaning to see inside the classroom.

"Nothing, Timmy, don't worry about it."

"You seemed worried about it, and that means somethings wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," I sighed, "I have to go to the dorms."

I watched his smile falter, but he tried to cover it up with a cough. I could tell it was disappointing for the both of us, but I had no choice. I needed to get my priorities in check, and unfortunately, the boy didn't come before academics.

Even though I wish he did.

"I can walk you there," he offered, straightening his satchel.

"No, it's better if you don't," I frowned, "I'm sorry."

"You can talk to me, y/n-"

"Please, Timothee. I'm fine. I just need to figure some things out."

It was the first time I've seen the boy so vulnerable. His postured caved, and his fingers tapped nervously on his bag-strap. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't imagine how he'd feel. I felt like he would think I was putting the blame for my grades on him, and that's unfair to him.

It was my mistake, and I had to be the one to fix it.