Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

❖coming out❖

Your POV

Timmy and I are sitting on our bed, getting ready to go to sleep. I'm reading my book, like always, and he's scrolling through emails on his phone. He sighs and shuts it off, putting it onto the bedside table next to him.

"I wish I didn't have to go," he says. He leans against the headboard, resting his head back and shutting his eyes. He's leaving in a week to go film a movie in Russia, of all places.

"I know. I wish you didn't have to go too. But we'll be fine," I reassure him, setting my book aside. I crawl over to him and prop myself up to kiss him. He grins, his eyes still closed.

"Mom, dad, I have something to tell you - oh, you're busy. Never mind! I'll come back later." Our fourteen year old daughter, Margaux, practically runs into our room and runs back out. Her voice is shaky and high-pitched. I pull away from Timothée with a start at her sudden interruption.

"No, Margaux, you're not interrupting anything. What's up?" I ask. She's almost out the door, but stops in the doorway. She slowly turns back around. She's biting her lip - one of her nervous habits.

"What's wrong?" Timothée asks, noticing this too and sitting up straight.

Margaux slowly walks back into our room and folds her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers anxiously. She stares at the ground, saying nothing for a moment.

Now I'm getting concerned. She's usually very laid back and relaxed, and words always come easily to her. She's incredibly smart. Timothée gives me a worried glance, his brows furrowed.

"Margaux?" I ask.

She takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly through her nose. She looks up, straight at us, with a determined expression.

"I think I'm bisexual and I like this girl and she asked me to be her girlfriend and I said yes."

The words come out in a rushed stream of hurry, and Margaux stares at us for a second, a panicked look in her eyes, before she runs out of the room. We hear the door to our apartment open and close with a slam.

"Shit - where is she going? She can't be out alone this late," Timmy says, instantly swinging his legs over the side of our bed and throwing on a sweatshirt. I follow his lead and tug on one of his sweatshirts. We both run downstairs and tug on our shoes before quickly leaving the apartment.

"I wonder why she was so nervous to tell us. I feel terrible that she must have been keeping that in for a while," I say as we rush down the hallway.

"I know. I wish she wasn't scared. Obviously we don't care - well, we care, but not, like, because she's bisexual," he says. "Come on, let's take the stairs. It's faster."

We both run down the stairs, reaching the lobby at last.

"Um, Hank, did you see Margaux run through here?" I ask our doorman.

"Yes. She ran that way about a minute ago. Is everything alright?" Hank asks, pointing to the right.

"Yeah, everything is fine. Thanks Hank," Timothée says, running out of the building.

"Margaux?!" I call. I don't know what good it will do. Even at 11pm NYC is loud and noisy.

"Margaux!" Timothée calls out too. I just want to wrap my arms around her and tell her how proud I am of her.

We live very close to Central Park - it's up on the left.

"Do you want to split? I'm worried about something happening to her," I say.