Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✺feeling faint✺

Trigger Warning: This depicts eating disorders in a graphic way. If this could be triggering to you in any way, please do not read.

I know, I know. I've written way too many tragic eating disorder stories. but this is my LIFE and this is what I know. to me, they're not tragic, but rather a reality. I just hope it could help someone relate. it's comforting to me at least to read things that show that other people UNDERSTAND it, because I don't know anyone irl who does. this will be the last one for a while, so if it's not your thing, don't worry.

Your POV

Too many calories.

I had way too many calories today.

And I'm trying to get better - I really am. But it's that fucking insane rush of control when I see the number go down. It's that feeling of power over my life. It's that addictive pulse through my veins that I get when I track what I've eaten for the day and it's nothing but hot coffee and water.

Today, though, it was more than hot coffee and water. It was crackers, and cheese, and strawberries, and pasta. I couldn't refuse it. How are you supposed to refuse it when people are watching you? People that know about your fucked up disorder?

You can't.

And I couldn't refuse anything today, not when Timmy made us eat breakfast and lunch, and then insisted on going out to dinner at our favorite place.

I could feel his eyes on me while we ate tonight. Obviously he knows. It's just such an uncomfortable thing to talk about. I see him monitoring each bite I take with hopeful eyes, as if he's praying it will stay in my body.

So now I'm standing in front of our bathroom mirror, still in the dress I wore for dinner. It's long, black, and silky. Simple but elegant. Timothèe says it's his favorite one of mine. He bought it for me in Paris when we went last year.

I can't understand why it's his favorite, because all I see standing in this mirror is a body full of imperfections. A stomach that looks a little too full. Skin that looks a little to pale. Legs that look a little to short.

I turn to the side, scrutinizing myself.

I will do better tomorrow. Even if it means I have to fucking force myself to throw up in private. I will do better.

With a mangled, frustrated sigh, I unzip the dress and force it off of my body, letting it slide to the floor and crumple into a pile.

I grab the sweats that I brought in here with me and slowly put them on. They're mine, for a change. Usually I wear Timmy's, which carry his scent. Rose water and sage and detergent, and something slightly musky and boyish. But tonight, I just have my own. And they don't smell as good.

A soft knock on the door snaps me out of my thoughts. I open it and he's standing in the doorway, wearing his pajamas. His hair is still styled to perfection from dinner, not yet messed up by anything. But honestly, even when it's messed up it looks perfect. He smiles softly at me and walks in.

"Hey," he says, getting out his toothbrush.

"Hey," I answer dully. I don't realize how removed my tone is. It's so crazy how these kinds of racing thoughts have such an immediate impact on everything; how I talk, how I stand, my personality, my energy. We had a nice night, and I'm just moping around, internally screaming at myself for eating too much. I remind myself of tomorrow's little plan for redemption, for a better sense of control. It comforts me.

"You alright?" he asks, his mouth full of foaming toothpaste. I realize I've been standing in the same place since he walked in, staring blankly at the floor as my secret thoughts run through my head.