Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✿first day✿

Your POV

"Okay, do you have your bag?" I ask y/d/n.

She nods, her pig tails shaking around her head.

"And the folder that Mrs. Dahl have to you?" Timmy asks her.

She nods again.

Y/d/n isn't usually the most talkative - she's a very quiet and thoughtful five year old. But even so, she's been especially silent this morning.

The three of us are standing in our apartment's kitchen, and she's just staring up at us now with her big green eyes. I see something resembling worry behind them.

"Hey, y/d/n, you're going to be fine. Remember how nice everyone was last weekend at your orientation? You already have a few friends that you'll know when you get there today," I tell her.

She nods before looking at the ground, clutching her lunch box in both hands. It's unusual to see her like this - she's fairly confident in a simple, "I know what I'm doing", kind of way. Timothèe gives me a nervous glance, and I return it.

He sinks down to his knees and places a large hand on her tiny shoulder.

"Yeah, everything is going to be just fine. You'll get to go to art, and science, and music class! You remember the art room? All of that paint looked fun," he tells her sweetly.

She still doesn't say anything. Timmy stands back up slowly and holds his hand out to her. She slips her little fingers through his long ones.

He looks back at me and shrugs one shoulder, looking anxious.

I think he's just as worried for her as she is herself. He's like that - extremely perceptive of other people's emotions even though he sometimes seems like an oblivious extrovert. He sort of absorbs any stress or sadness that someone around him holds. Like an emotional sponge for people within a ten foot radius of him. I could tell he was nervous for her last night after we put her to bed. As we were getting ready for bed, he was quieter than usual, but he kept randomly bringing up little worries he had about her lunch, or her pencils, or the outfit we had chosen for her.

I, on the other hand, am excited for her. I feel bad that she's worried, but I know that it will dissolve the second that she walks into the classroom and is surrounded by other happy-go-lucky five year olds.

I glance over at the clock on our oven.

"Okay, time to go," I tell them both. Y/d/n lets Timmy lead her out of the kitchen and out our door. She's still silent as we take the elevator down to the lobby and start walking to the subway.

New York is loud this morning, just like it is every morning, which is nice because the three of us are very silent as we walk down the sidewalk hand in hand. The noise of the city drowns out the silence and tense worry that seems to be emulating from each of us.

"Wait - wait," Timothèe stops us as we're about to walk down underground.

There's a flower vendor right next to us, and he very quickly slips the man a few dollars before taking a single daisy from him. He walks back to us and hands y/d/n the daisy. She clutches it in her fist tightly, her little knuckles whitening around the stem.

"You can put it in your backpack to remind you of us while you're at school," Timmy tells her. She gives him a weak smile and nods. He's giving her the same weak smile, but he's trying not to. He's trying to be genuine, to show her that he's nothing but excited, but I see right through it. She has so much of him in her - literally. The smiles they wear are seemingly identical. 

"Okay, should we get going?" I ask gently. They both snap out of it and Timothèe stands up next to me, reaching down for her hand. 

The subway ride is quiet - well, it's actually quite loud, but the three of us are quiet. We know y/d/n; if she wants to talk to us, she will.