Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

8 | Not All Things Go According To Plan

VERA

_

I'M A WORN OUT RECORD, AND I'VE BEEN PLAYED FOR A FOOL.

It was always the same sickening melody that I'd known my whole life. Fall for a boy, nearly love a boy, and then break my heart. Round and round did that same old song play, an echo in the back of my mind that I tried to drown out with whatever I could, but it was always going to be there to remind me of one reoccurring thing.

Failure.

Storming into my apartment, I blinked through brimming tears as I threw my bags onto the table, cursing my life for being the way it was.

It was my fault for ignoring the signs. They were right in front of me—he was right in front of me—and yet I distracted myself with a future that was never really there. I imagined him to be something so perfect and surreal, and yet I mistook my own dreams for the twisted reality of the world. It's my fault, there's no one else left to blame.

"Toni?" I called out, my hands shaking as I began to pace, "Toni, are you home?"

The lack of a response was enough to answer in her place.

My eyes darted around the small room in search of something that might have told me where she was, and I spotted a yellow sticky-note pressed onto the side of the fridge. Rushing over and ripping it off, I read the tiny scribbles of ink in panic.

Staying at Lizzy's, it said, I think this one's a keeper.

Who was Lizzy? I recognized the names from one of our conversations a few nights before, but I wasn't paying attention, and God, why wasn't I paying attention? If I'd just listened to her for once, instead of zoning out to think of other things, maybe I'd know who the hell Lizzy was and why she was a 'keeper'.

Not that I'd be able to do anything about it, given the fact that I'm left alone in this apartment while drowning in a pool of tears I refuse to shed.

I hate him. I hate Timothée. He made me delusional with happiness for a brief moment, and then let me come crashing down to earth without a parachute. It shouldn't have been a big deal, really—just the fact that he led me to believe he cared for me, then admitted he's a thief who was using me, and stomped on my heart—was in the way. Not. A. Big. Deal.

But how was I supposed to forget all of this?

All of this anger is building up inside of me, and I need to put it somewhere. Break something with it. Rip something up with it. Write something with it.

"I can write without his help," I scowled, rushing over to my desk and scrambling for my computer, "I never needed him, and I never will."

As I flipped the laptop open, I pulled up my documents, scrolling through the list of untouched files until I found a blank page with nothing on it. Just write. It's easy. Put a word on a page, and who cares if it's bad! Edit it later! It's just one simple word, and one simple sentence to start.

Please do this for yourself, Vera, I urged myself, please.

My fingers were hovering over the keyboard, nearly shaking with anticipation, and I could feel the sliver of an idea creeping onto my tongue. It was there! Right there! I just needed it to show itself. I didn't care if it was nothing more than a speck of dust, I was clinging onto nothing already, and I needed this.

But it never came.

It just sunk lower, and lower, until it was completely gone, and I was left staring at a bright screen with nothing on it. I could almost hear Timothée's voice in the back of my head, laughing at my inability to just put a simple sentence onto a page. It should be easy, it should be simple—but no, no, I couldn't even bring myself to touch the keyboard.

And in the middle of the night, I threw my head back and screamed into my apartment, not caring if the ceiling cracked and crushed me completely.

Because he was right.

Timothée was in my mind now, and he wasn't getting out.

➢

THE FOLLOWING WEEK WAS QUIET.

My laptop remained open, but the page remained untouched. It was like I was purposely avoiding it like a plague, and the very thought of sitting in the chair sent shivers down my spine. But I had my reasons. Maybe it was because I knew I'd have another breakdown attempting to write, or maybe it was because I feared I'd feel that sickening feeling of failure if I did.

People cope with their struggles in different ways, and mine was avoidance.

But I couldn't blame it on Timothée, not completely anyways. He may have taken a hammer and smashed my pride with it, but he was only breaking what was already broken before. I had no pride. I thought myself a failure, and the only time I had a shimmer of hope was when he was helping me.

Fooling me.

And in some twisted way, I let my mind wander off into it's darker pit of imagination. If I took his offer, maybe I'd be writing right now. No matter how despicable his intentions were, there was a benefit to wasting my time with him. I'd felt inspired, at ease, and undoubtedly happy. But now that he's gone...

...I shouldn't be thinking about this.

He thinks I'm weak, and he tricked me. I can't be thinking of finding him again. That would be giving myself right into his plan, and like he said, I'd crawl back to him like a moth to a flame. It's unthinkable really. To take my dignity and watch it burn in a fire of my own creation?

I'm not doing it.

But my book?

No.

I'll keep spiraling without him.

You never needed him.

You never know how much you need something until you have it, and when it's gone, you can't let go of it, my mind told me, he's become a crutch, hasn't he? I remember my hesitation to stay in Paris, whining about it to Toni every time I had the chance. I was scared, I was feeling ruined, and I didn't have anything to help me onto my feet.

And then he walked through those glass doors, and for a moment in time, I was fine.

I hadn't felt fine in a while. And even though it was birthed out of a lie, I couldn't get over how good it felt. To be fine. To feel alive, excited, and on the brink of falling in love.

I didn't need him to live, but I needed him to feel like I did.

And if I end up digging my own grave with this, at least I've got control of the shovel. I'll find a way to make this my choice, not his. It's not about him. It's about my book. I have no doubt in my mind that I will write this book someday, and if he's the one to get it out of me, then I'll take that chance.

I might not have it ever again.