delicate. / timothée chalamet au

twenty.

Grief is weird.

I have consumed every word written by people who have studied the mourning process, who have experienced it, and who try to explain it to others. They all say the same: Time heals all.

What a load of shit.

Sure, time does help. Time creates distance, it can help you to separate yourself from the feeling of loss, of course only temporarily.

Then one day, you pass by a store and that store is playing a specific song, and suddenly it's that same pain in your chest, all too familiar, all consuming, like you're back to the moment in which your life changed forever.

I've come to the conclusion myself, that no matter who you've lost, no matter how long you go without them, time doesn't make you feel better about it. Time just helps you to forget.

But forgetting is dangerous.

It's full of guilt at every turn, and that guilt sooner or later will turn into self loathing, which then turns you into nothing.

You see my dilemma yet? Either willingly choosing to feel loss at all times, or feel nothing.

I get headaches just thinking about this shit.

Tim stands up from the bed in which we have been laying in a tension filled silence all day. It's been three weeks since the night of my nightmare, and since then I've told Tim about the frozen curly fries, me being high at Jace's funeral, and some of Jace's conspiracies surrounding The Office. In return, Tim told me why his sister called him Timmy, it was because her favorite show growing up was The Fairly Odd Parents... and he hasn't brought her up since. I know he's not ready to talk about his sister, I also know he's an absolute pro at appearing okay while a storm is brewing within his mind.

So, while he listens to me go on and on about my dead sibling, I can't help but wonder if he'll ever want to open up to me about his.

He runs his hand through his messy hair as his back tenses, "I can feel you watching me," he mutters out.

"Guilty," I blush, standing up to take his enormous sweater off of my heated body.

I have one of his grey t shirts on underneath, and when I look back at him I see a expression I've never been met with before.

"Where did you get that shirt from?" He asks plainly.

I look at his furrowed brow, wondering if he may be having a bad day. "From your dresser," I reply, voice light.

"Which drawer? The middle or bottom?"

"The bottom, I think? Is everything okay, I can take it off?"

He shuts his eyes softly, sighing lightly as he rubs the temple of his forehead.

"Yes! Rose, can you ask before you go through my shit and put on whatever you want?" His eyes are wide, and my heart accelerates.

I take the shirt off and toss it at him, "Here."

He takes a quick sniff of it and winces. "Really Timothee, you don't have to be so dramatic, I took a shower last night."

He throws the shirt on the bed, "It doesn't matter, now it smells like you," he huffs.

"Do you want to tell me what's really going on? Why are you upset, it can't just be about a stupid shirt?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?" I take a step closer towards him and he tenses.

"Because if I do, you're gonna want to make sure I feel better and make me talk about something that I don't want to talk about, because I can't talk about her ever again cause the last time I did, you watched me have a panic attack and held me when I'm supposed to be the one holding you."