Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

★hide myself★

Your POV

Fuck.

This doesn't look right at all.

I tear off the short red dress and throw it on the floor with the pile of other ones. I'm actually getting stressed now. Timmy and I are going out with some of the other people working on his movie right now, and we are supposed to be there soon.

"Y/N... are you ready?" he taps lightly on our bedroom door. I sigh in frustration. I'm standing in my bra and underwear next to the pile of skirts, dresses, tops, and pants that just don't look good tonight. Half of my closet has been haphazardly thrown around the floor.

"Yeah... sorry. Give me like, two more minutes," I call back, trying to hide the frustration in my voice. I stare at my body in our floor length mirror. I can't help but notice everything wrong. Do I just cancel and not go at all? Do I fake being sick? No, and no. If I cancel, Timmy will ask why, and if I say I'm sick, he'll stay home with me. I tear my eyes away from my reflection, and before I can help it, hot tears start leaking from my eyes.

"No. Not right now," I whisper to myself, shaking out my hands and taking deep breaths. I know we're going to a nightclub, but I can't wear anything cute right now. I just hate my body so much. I feel stuck inside of it.

I reach into our closet and pull out some of my baggiest jeans and a hoodie to go with it. This could look like a night-out-on-the-city outfit, right? It hides my body, so it will work. I don't even look at my reflection in the mirror before I walk out of our bedroom and close the door quickly.

Timmy is waiting for me by our front door, checking his phone.

"Hey," he says looking up at me. "Wait, what's wro-"

"Nothing, I'm fine. Can we just go?" I ask, sitting down and tugging on my converse. I stand quickly and reach around him to open the door. He gently grabs my arm.

"Y/N, seriously. Have you been cryin-"

"Timmy, I said I'm fine. Let's go," I push past him. I really, really don't want to talk to him about this. I haven't ever told him about my body dysmorphia, and I don't plan on doing it tonight. He follows me down the hallway and into the elevator silently. If he notices my outfit isn't exactly a club outfit, he doesn't say anything.

***

We've been at the club for a few hours now, and I am not feeling it at all tonight. I feel out of place with what I wore, worn down from freaking out earlier, exhausted from plastering a smile on my face in front of Timmy's costars, and really shitty about my body.

I told Timmy a while ago that I just wanted to be alone, and he reluctantly left me at the bar by myself. I just want to go home.

"Hey," a voice behind me says. Timmy lightly squeezes my shoulder. "Let's go home," he says. I nod and leave my half empty drink on the bar.

He says a quick goodbye to everyone before wrapping his arm around my waist and walking us out into the cool night. I don't want him touching me right now. I don't want him to feel how disgusting my body is. I carefully move out of his hand and cross my arms over my chest.

He looks at me like he's about to say something, but then refrains. We finally get to our car, and he starts driving us back home. The ride is silent and uncomfortable. I am fighting back hot tears the whole time, trying not to reveal how I'm feeling. I don't want him to know I'm insecure, because then maybe he'll realize why and leave.

In our apartment, I kick off my shoes and walk straight to our bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I'm being a bitch, I know. I'm taking out my frustration on him.