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“So, Y/N… What’s it like being the girlfriend of international heartthrob Timothee Chalamet?”
It’s a question that makes you feel sick when the reporter asks it. It’s a question that makes your knees weak, your mind race and your hands shake; a question which you will still be thinking about hours later. You know that any hesitation won’t go amiss, so you limit it to as little as possible.
“It’s amazing, you know? Don’t get me wrong, it’s difficult to stay in contact with each other, when he’s filming and I’m filming and such, but it’s always a comfort to know that at the end of the day he’s on the other end of the phone.” You can barely hear yourself think over the insistent shouts of the paparazzi, yelling for yourself and the talented people around you.
“You turned up separately tonight, is everything alright?”
You tell me, honey. “Yes, everything is fine. We haven’t yet had the opportunity to catch up, I believe he landed just this morning. I’m sure we’ll be reunited soon,” The smile on your face is the perfect fake one which people always seem to believe. You rely on that smile too much.
She watches you like she sees straight through you, and it occurs to you that she must have seen that false smile painted on the faces of many celebrities through the years. She’s only young, but you recognise her from Snapchat, and you can’t help but feel conscious of how your answers come across. Everything is fine. Please believe me and move on to the next celebrity.
She does after a few more questions, and you don’t look back to see who she has moved on to.
Slowly but surely, you make your way down the red carpet alone. Occasionally you are accompanied by fellow actresses who make you feel better for being on your own. You hear camera-men muttering to the journalists they are accompanied by about Timothee being in the area, and once upon a time you would have chased him and raced gladly into his arms - Once upon a time you would have been on his arm, with paparazzi having to ask one or the other to move away for individual photos. Once upon a time you were inseparable.
Now you find yourself striving to avoid him.
A public reunion would be too awkward.
Your dress, a beautiful shade of burgundy with petals lining the bust and off-the-shoulder sleeves, twinkles as the cameras flash in your direction. It appears to be effortless: the epitome of grace, beauty and dignity as you float down the seemingly endless carpet.
“Y/N! Timothee’s over there, why don’t you have some photos? Can we have some photos Y/N?” You glance over your shoulder down where you’ve just been and catch what you think is your boyfriend between the flocks of people having photos. “Are you and Timothee alright, Y/N? Have you broken up?”
You pose for more pictures with passing friends and leave once the journalists have moved their attention from you. Before he can get too close.
But you’re so close to him. So close you can hear the tabloids yelling for interviews, so close that every journalist close to you had eyes on him, waiting to catch him for interviews, and it makes you want to run for the hills and run to him at the same time. He always did manage to calm you during award season. Truth be known, you have never been good in the limelight. The way you can’t even look with the wrong expression, can’t think straight, can’t have a conversation without companies employing lip-readers, has always put you on edge. As a result of this anxiety you’ve never been alone at awards shows. Until now, anyway.
It would take a grand total of twenty steps and thirty seconds to get through the celebrities and take him in your arms for the first time in months, whispered ‘love yous’ and other sweet nothings making you forget about all of the anxiety and negativity of the past few months, but that’s not you. So you grin and bear it, willing yourself to get to the end of the red carpet quickly and without further questions. You pose and smile through the questions shouted from behind flashing lights, acting as though they never quite reached your ears fully, until you’re safely in the auditorium away from prying eyes. Only then do you sink back in your seat, ignoring the insistent demands from your fitness coach telling you posture is crucial flashing through your mind, and release a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.
You don’t know where he sits. You don’t know who he sits beside or even which row he is seated. You hear the faintest sounds of his laughter over the growing buzz of chatter humming through the warm room, and you can’t help wondering why he’s laughing, and who he’s laughing with. Probably a co-star. A co-star he’s rumoured to be dating. Another one.
You shouldn’t resent him for things that are out of his control. You shouldn’t look into those articles that shitty newspapers publish to gain readers and stir up trouble, but you do have a more than short glimpse every now and then. They can write whatever they want, but pictures definitely do not lie. And with phone calls, messages and any other sort of communication being few and far between these days, it all makes sense.
*
Your apartment is silent when you eventually get home, after hours of mostly unsurprising awards getting dished out to apparently the most humble of people. You drank a couple of champagnes to see you through the awfully long night, but it seems to only make things worse when you get home.
The silence is nothing but a punch in the face. It’s uncomfortable and it drowns you. A harsh reminder of how lonely you feel. You flick through your collection of vinyls until you find a soft jazz record, and it’s sweet music fills the room and eases your mind.
Lonely. The first and only time you’ll admit it. You don’t rely on Timmy, not one bit; you have plenty of friends who support you, plenty of family who love you, but he just… makes it all manageable when things get tough and you can’t quite breathe on your own. You trust him with your life and you know he would never hurt you. He loves you; you love him. Like two pieces from a puzzle, you just fit. Always have done.
But you can’t remember how his voice sounds first thing in the morning. You can’t remember the exact shade of his eyes. His skin on yours would probably feel foreign. And coming home - and to you, this apartment overlooking Hollywood is home - and seeing parts of him everywhere you look - in photos taking you back to happier times, in TV shows you binge watched together, even in the fridge magnets you insist on buying wherever you go travelling with him - makes you feel, yes, lonely.
Nobody knows you like he knows you. He knows that you like your tea different depending on the time of day. He knows that you have to lie in bed for at least 10 minutes after waking up to get ready for the day. He knows that you don’t like being alone at awards shows.
The scent of the perfume you’d decided to wear earlier on in the day still lingers in the undisturbed bedroom. On the right side, the side that hasn’t been used in so long, all remains in the same place as they were left. Aftershave bottles, jewellery, a shirt thrown in the corner of the room and forgotten about on the day he left to film, all in their own place. Never changed. Never touched.
You wash your face clean of makeup, drawing your hair up and away from your face, and drape a dressing gown - a satin number which you believe Tim brought back from France - around your shoulders.
When you find your boyfriend sitting on the sofa, elbows on knees with his face in his hands, you should have been pleasantly surprised.
“Sorry, have I… Did I interrupt your celebrations? You didn’t need to follow me home.” He jumps as if he didn’t know you were there, and turns his whole body around to look at you. His eyes droop slightly, shadows taint the soft skin underneath them, and part of you pities him. He watches you tenderly, as if nothing has changed. You don’t suppose it has, really.
“You didn’t go?”
“Of course I did,” You don’t mean to snap at him, it just seems to come out that way. Tender eyes change to questioning, eyebrows furrowed in a look of curiosity, yet all you want to do is kiss him. You make a conscious effort of keeping your voice low and gentle, as you add: “Just got home.”
“I didn’t see you. If you were there why didn’t you…” You will him to finish the sentence, but it seems he doesn’t feel the need to. Standing in the doorway of your bedroom, hand still on the door handle, you feel on show. Like an artifact behind glass, admired by all. It’s not a nice feeling. “What have I done?”
You shut your eyes, breathing through the anger bubbling deep down in the pit of the stomach, because you suppose he hasn’t actually done anything. Only ignoring you for the past, what, five months? He’s been busy, you tell yourself, Busy working. Busy filming. Busy being the amazing person he normally is.
When you open your eyes again, he’s standing. He looks conflicted, unsure whether to stay where he is or to hold you like he would usually when something bothers you, but this seems different. This isn’t just a comment somebody made about your dress on the red carpet. It’s something bigger than that.
“Did you…” In your head it sounds so childish, so petty, but you have to ask. For peace of mind. “Did you miss me?” Your voice cracks and tears sting your eyes, and you have to breathe shaky breaths to keep your composure.
“Y/N…”
“No, Tim, please. Please, don’t tell me I’m stupid, I already know that, please don’t act like it’s obvious because right now it’s not. Every time I heard someone mention your name on that carpet, I wanted to run to you. Every time I saw yet another photo in the papers with whoever you’re rumoured to be cheating on me with I tried to convince myself that no, you wouldn’t do that to me,” Your outburst is paired with wild hands and streaming tears, unsteady breaths and a rising voice, and a breaking heart. From both parties. “I tried, tried so hard, to not look too much into the lacking replies and the non-existent phone calls. I tried to tell myself that you were just busy, too busy to call… But you easily made time for other people.”
A beat passes. He does nothing. Still conflicted, still unsure whether to stay within the safety of the sofa or to scoop you up and tell you that yes, you are being stupid, whether you want to hear it or not.
“Not a day passed where I didn’t think of you, mon amour. I promise you that, okay?” Hesitant, gauging your reactions, he takes slow steps towards you. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I made you feel like this. Let me make it up to you, please.”
He stops about two steps away, so close you can smells the remnants of his aftershave and the alcohol on his breath. He watches your tear-covered face for something, anything, but leaves the gap between you for you to close. He holds out his arms as he becomes inpatient and you fall into them, tears of happiness and relief replacing those of heartbreak, holding him so close you don’t know where he begins and you end. He breathes a sigh of relief, kissing your lips sweetly and gently.
All your worries had been for nothing, you realise that now. For he is home, reacquainting himself with you and your body. Although him leaving will never get easier, and you know that too, he will always come home to you. All is well in the world.