In Your Eyes ✧ Timothée Chalamet

02 - seperate stories

E L L A

Nowadays it feels like I haven't come as far as I'd hoped I would.

It's like I'm that same little girl stuck in a house full of bad memories that I can't escape and my mind is on a constant mission to torment me.

My brain just won't give me a break. Sometimes it convinces me I'm the one to blame. That I'm the reason Drew Jones killed himself.

Sometimes it tells me that's not that case, that he was just a sad teenage boy with a rough past and his stepfather crossed the line one night which made Drew go off the rails.

The second option is way too complicated though, so my mind decides to take the easy way out and I convince myself that Drew's death was my doing.

Because it's somehow simpler that way.

But how on earth is that simple?

I snuggle into my pillow and remember Drew laying here with me. I remember when he lifted up my shirt and saw my scars. There was more understanding in his eyes than there was shock and I didn't get it at the time but I do now.

He saw himself in me. He saw the other half of him, a girl who had gone through the same fucked up shit that he'd gone through and she survived it. She made it out unscathed.

I seemed like a goal to him, something he wanted to achieve. I was his motive and his muse. He might have loved me like he claimed he did over and over again, but maybe it wasn't love. Maybe he just idolized me. He saw me holding myself together every day, he saw me smile sometimes, laugh, crack jokes with him and hold my head up high.

I was an example for him, someone he wanted to be like. Someone who suffered the same trauma as him but still made it out strong and alive, without being fucked up in the process.

But if only he'd known how fucked up I was. If only he'd known I was more fucked up than he ever could be. He didn't see me at my worst, when I woke up to nightmares of my father, when I cried over my dead mother at night, when I'd lock myself up in the bathroom and purposely inflict myself any sort of pain to steady the heart that beats viciously in my chest.

If he'd seen the real me, he would never have fallen in love with me. He would never have gotten hurt by me. He would have never even killed himself.

Now that's...simple.

I hear quiet chatter outside, it's my brother and Timothée deep in conversation. After a few minutes when I finally hear Aaron's footsteps outside my door as he walks towards his room I decide to stand up and leave the comfort of my bed.

I exit my bedroom to find Timothée on the couch with a pillow and a small blanket that Aaron must have lent him. He looks at me and he tries to smile but his smile slips into a frown at the mere sight of me.

I know I don't look good. I know I've grown thinner since the funeral. I don't look sick but I don't look like myself either. I barely sleep, my under eyes show clear proof of that and my bottom lip is swollen and red due to the amount of times I've bitten down on it so aggressively.

He breaks the silence between us because it takes me a while to speak these days. 'Do you need something love?' He asks. 'Is there something I can get you?' He's searching my eyes. He's always looking for something in my eyes that he can't seem to find. I wish I could find it and give it to him, I wish I could make him happy.

He's miserable with me, I can tell. But I know he won't ever admit to it.

'You're sleeping on the couch?' I chirp dismissing his question. The first two weeks after Drew's death Timmy would come by the apartment bright and early and then leave once he thinks I've fallen deep asleep. But lately I think he's been sleeping on our couch and I've been way too oblivious to even notice such a crucial detail.