𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞 ─────⋆⋅★𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩é𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘵

𝟎𝟏 | 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐫𝐤

<3 all graphics and cover by @lyraastarr. 

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲

𝐄𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐕𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐧, 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐫𝐤

"Why don't you clear up the rumours about you and Timothée Chalamet once and for all?" The interviewer's voice cut through the silence, steady and probing. I looked out the window, trying to compose myself.

Even after all these years, just the mention of his name could undo me—my heart stumbling, memories crashing in.

"I don't know what kind of question that is," I replied, pulling my jumper tighter around myself. The studio air was cool.

His gaze didn't waver. "I thought this interview was about the book?" I added, turning my eyes back to him, studying his face for any sign of relenting.

"Isn't that what your book is about? Your secret affair with Mr. Chalamet?"

The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy. My fingers dug into the fabric of my jumper as I curled into myself, feeling the bite of nerves at the edges of my mind. I shifted slightly.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The first time you two were spotted together was four years ago, in Paris. 

You've stayed silent on those photos and the nature of your relationship ever since. But now, with the release of your book, Miss Villin, everyone's asking the same question—what happened?"

The rain began to tap against the window, soft and rhythmic. The sound transported me, pulling me back through time.

Autumn rain. Paris. Cigarettes and black coffee. Red wine, card games, and conversations that stretched so late into the night, our voices grew husky.

I could see us clearly, nestled in that tiny Parisian apartment, the world outside forgotten. The way he'd laugh, throwing his head back, the light catching in his eyes as if a camera had been rolling, capturing a perfect, fleeting moment.

"Nothing happened," I said, my voice steady but thin, knowing we both understood it was a lie. How could I explain something that felt so distant now yet remained vivid in my memory?

I glanced at the interviewer, catching the glint of curiosity in his eyes. Does he really expect me to lay it all bare?

"Timothée and I..." I hesitated, the weight of my words pressing against my chest. I let out a breath, trying to steady the whirlwind inside me. 

How could I sum up what he meant to me in just a few sentences? How could I explain the way he'd slip handwritten notes into my coat pocket, his handwriting looping elegantly across the page, making my heart race each time I discovered them?

The interviewer saw his opening and didn't miss a beat. "Do you still love him?"

My breath caught. I hugged a knee to my chest, bringing the cuffs of my jumper to my cheeks, inhaling deeply, trying to ground myself. 

The studio seemed to shrink, the walls closing in, the past pressing against the present.

The scent of tangerines.

His lips, soft and warm, brushing against mine, the way he'd pull back slightly, his eyes searching mine, unreadable, always keeping me guessing. 

The last time I saw him, words unspoken, his voice low and gentle. And the day he told me this would come. The man I felt I had known in this lifetime and would surely meet in every other.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬, 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐀𝐠𝐨

"Ma chère, imagine this," he said suddenly, eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint I had fallen in love with. "Years from now, we're both on a red carpet." He grinned, his voice full of playful excitement.

I laughed softly, though a pang of sadness laced my tone. 

"And why would I be at a red carpet event? I'm not the famous one here, remember?" I tried to keep it light, to match his mood, but the reality weighed heavy on me.

He ignored my question, continuing with his fantasy. 

"The cameras are all focused on you. People are whispering, 'Isn't that Cara? The author?' And then, someone asks you, 'Cara, who's the most influential person in your life? Who's the one who inspired you to write your best work?' 

And you just smile and say, 'Well, that would be T.'"

I rolled my eyes, a smile tugging at my lips despite the ache in my chest. "And what do you do in this scenario? 

Walk over to me and remind them that I was never just 'some girl,' that you always knew I was meant for something more?"

"Exactly," he said, his expression growing serious, though the boyish charm still lingered. "Because I do know that. 

You're not meant to live in the shadows, Cara. You're meant to be seen, to be heard. The world needs to know who you are."

"You'll catch my eye, and I'll look at you and we'll remember this. We'll remember Paris, and we'll fall in love all over again." His words lingered in the air between us, a fragile thread of hope. 

For a moment, I let myself get lost in the fantasy, the idea of a future where everything was simple, where love was enough.

But the illusion faded quickly, the harsh light of reality breaking through. I shifted closer to him, resting my head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne—amber and musk, mingling with tangerine.

"Timothée," I whispered, "when they ask me about you... what do you want me to say?"

He was silent, tension rippling through his body. Then, slowly, he turned to face me, his hand gently cupping my cheek, his eyes searching mine as if trying to memorize every detail.

"Tell them," he said softly, "that you were in love with a famous movie star. And that he was madly in love with you too. That's all they need to know."

We sat in silence, the dream of a red carpet reunion suspended between us, fragile as glass. But for now, in this moment, I held onto it—onto him—because even though I knew it was over, I wasn't ready to let go. Not yet.

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲

The interviewer's voice snapped me back to the present.

"Do you still love him?"

I sighed, returning my gaze to the man across from me. His pen hovered over his notebook, waiting.

"Of course I love him... I always have."

He began scribbling furiously, the scratch of his pen filling the silence between us. 

The tension in the room dissipated slightly, but my heart still raced, the flood of memories overwhelming me.

That night, I sat by my window, watching the rain blur the city lights on the glass. The scene reminded me of him, of those endless Parisian nights. 

I remembered lazy mornings in his bed, his lips tasting of raindrops, the way my heart raced every time his fingertips brushed my skin.

It all came rushing back, each memory vivid and sharp. And as I closed my eyes, there they were—his hazel eyes, eternally etched into my mind. 

Every time I looked into them, I felt the same as I had from the start, like we both knew he'd always win.

And so, mon cher, that is where I'll meet you. At the start.