timothée chalamet imagines

forever

your pov

"Last question of the session," the marriage counselor said "what do you both thing the major issue is?"

'Where do I start,' I thought.

"I think she's an over-reactor. I can't do anything without her blowing up over it."

"I'm an over-reactor?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?" he snapped.

The counselor just looked at us. "Now I th-"

"He has an attitude problem."

"Mrs. Chalam-"

"No, he has anger issues. I'm sorry, that's what I meant."

"You're both struggling with communication. If you, Mrs.Chalamet, tend to over-react at things, let your husband explain before you jump to any conclusions or spit out any response you're feeling."

I closed my eyes and rolled them, letting out a frustrated sigh. "Alright."

"And if you, Mr.Chalamet, tend to have anger issues like your wife says, take a moment to relax and say what you want without raising your tone, changing your attitude, etcetera."

"Okay." he nodded.

The counselor got up and grabbed a folder, handing us each a piece of paper. "These are some topics you can address and communicate about tonight for homework. Besides these topics, I'd also like you to express how you think today's session went and about the progress you've made over the past month."

I scanned over the paper, I'm not doing this shit. "Thank you so much." I smiled and got up, walking right out the door of his office.

Timothée followed behind, yelling a thank you to the receptionist that had greeted us earlier.

He drove us back home in silence. I was angry, my hands clenched to the piece of paper, it creased in all types of directions.

After thirty-agonizing minutes of driving, we parked in the garage. I got out, heading to the kitchen to find something to cook.

Today we had a 'lunch-time' session, without the lunch. I'm starving. From the pantry, I grabbed spaghetti and tomato sauce. I also grabbed the meatballs from the fridge.

It wouldn't be a quick made meal, maybe twenty or thirty minutes. It was good enough, there would be leftovers for dinner.

As I turned on the stove, Timothée walked behind me, grabbing a beer from the fridge, and took it with him upstairs.

Hot tears escaped from my eyes as I opened up the package of meatballs and cracked the pasta so it could fit into the pot.

Once the water started to boil, I threw in the pasta and put a skillet to heat up so I could cook the meatballs.

Two years ago, Timothée and I got married. We had dated for three years before he proposed.

I was the happiest girl alive then, keyword "then." After that, everything just fell apart.

Every couple disagrees, fights, and complains.

We just..do it differently? What the hell does that even mean? I can't explain it.

It felt like I was living in heaven on Earth way back then. But after we got married, it seemed like I was now living in hell, and Timothée was the devil.

The meatballs simmered and I stirred them around, the pasta barely going soft.

I grabbed the bottle of sauce and twisted the top. "Fuck." It was sealed tightly.