Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

❋sick girls❋

Your POV

I wake up with a splitting headache. It hurts behind my eyes, and my entire body feels tense from it. I slowly sit up. It's 6:42. Three minutes before my alarm goes off. I sink back into the warm covers and groan. 

Next to me, I feel Timothée move. I've woken him up three minutes early. 

"Sorry," I whisper through the dark. 

"Sfine," he groans. 

Our room is illuminated in a sort of bluish light that filters through our thin curtains. Soon it will be a yellow glow, but the sun hasn't risen yet. I watch his face as I try to massage my temples. He looks so peaceful. 

I decide to get up and grab Sage earlier than usual. If I'm feeling this horrible, it's going to take a lot longer to get her ready for school. Dealing with five-year-olds early in the morning is never a quick task. 

As I stand up, I realize that my entire body feels like... shit. My back is achy, my head hurts, and I literally sway I feel so faint. I stumble out of our bedroom and across the hall to Sage's room. The show must go on, even if I don't feel like it. That's what you have to do with kids.

I open her door and turn her light on. She's dead asleep, her small hands tucked under her head. It's funny. Timmy does that sometimes. Her breathing is slightly ragged and she coughs in her sleep, her face tensing. 

Not a good sign. 

I walk over to her bed and sit down on the edge, rubbing her back. I try to contain my own coughs as she wakes up. 

"Mommy... I don't feel good," she whines before coughing again. 

"I'm sorry. Neither do I. Let's get you some medicine," I tell her. I get up and walk to our medicine closet in the hall.

It takes me a minute to find the children's cold medicine in the dark, and in the process, I end up dropping a few various medicine bottles on the loud, hardwood floor. 

"What are you doing?" Timothée says from behind me. I hadn't heard him get up. He rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his tousled hair. 

"I was just... getting the medicine," I explain. 

"Oh... what?" he asks. 

"Sage is sick," I explain. 

He looks at me through the semi-darkness, surveying my tired expression. 

"You're sick too." It's not a question. 

"No. I'm fine, really. I'm fine," I answer. I have to go to work today. I can't miss work.

He raises his eyebrows at me, but doesn't argue. 

"Okay. You bring her the medicine and I'll call the school," he says. I nod and slowly walk back to Sage's room, holding the cold medicine in one hand. 

She's asleep again, cradling her small face in her hands. I don't want to wake her. Instead, I sink onto the bed next to her, wrapping my arm around her. I let my eyes close and try not to focus on my sore throat. 

I'm almost asleep when I hear her door creak open. I open my eyes and sit up. Timothée stands in the doorway, holding a bottle of cold medicine for adults. 

He looks down at us, and Sage coughs in her sleep. 

"My girls are sick," he says, with a frown. 

He's right. I can't just will away this cold, or whatever this is. I'm sick. 

I reach out for the medicine he's holding, and he walks over to hand it to me. I take it gratefully, and down the syrup, squinting my eyes at its horrid flavor.