Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✧panic attack✧

Trigger Warning: This depicts description of a panic attack. Please do not read if this could be triggering to you in any way.

Your POV

"Timmy! I'm home!" I yell, as I swing our apartment door open and hang up my coat. He doesn't reply. I had a great day at work; one of my coworkers brought lunch in, I finished a huge article before my deadline, and I finally got the raise I've been hoping for. I kick my boots off and fling myself onto the couch, just laying there and smiling at the white ceiling for a moment. I hear a noise coming from the hallway, and sit upright. It's a strange panting sound. Our bedroom door is slightly ajar, and through the gap I see Timothée's figure pacing back and forth.

Concern replaces my upbeat mood as I stand and walk quickly down the short hallway, pushing the bedroom door open. He's walking very quickly in circles, running is long fingers through his tousled curls. His breaths are extremely fast and shaky.

"Timmy, what's wrong?" I ask, entering the room completely. He jumps at my voice and stops pacing, not realizing I was standing here at all.

"I... I..." he stutters. He immediately starts circling the room again, panting as if he's trying to catch his breath. I walk over to him and place my hand on his shoulder.

"Woah, Tim. Calm down," I say. He stops moving again at my touch. He faces me and I keep one hand on his shoulder before placing the other one against his heart. I almost jump back in surprise because of how quickly it's beating. Like it's trying to tear itself out of his chest.

"What's wrong?" I ask, trying to meet his eyes. He throws his head back and stares wildly around the room.

"I... don't... I have a thing... I don't want to do this..." he pants. He continuously flexes his fingers and then balls them into tight fists, over, and over, and over again. Tears start to stream from his wide eyes and down his pink, flushed cheeks.

"It's okay. Calm down, you're okay. Here, put your hand here," I say, taking his hand and holding it against my own heart. "Look at me," I tell him. He moves his wide, green eyes to stare directly into mine. "Okay. In... Out... In... Out..." I say slowly, as I take guide him through deep breaths. He shakily tries to match my breathing and after a few minutes, his heart stops racing.

"I'm sorry... I was panicking because I have to do this press thing that... I really don't want to do," he says, looking at the ground.

"What is it?" I ask. I'm angry at whoever is making him do this.

"It's just... like... I have to answer all of these questions live from fans and the last time I did one I just sounded so stupid because I was stressed and I'm worried that I'll sound even more stupid and I don't want to see all of these cameras just flashing at me because it gives me a headache and I can't see anything and I just really, really, don't want to do it," he rambles, getting himself worked up again.

"Okay, okay. Calm down. You're going to be just fine. Is there a way you can talk to your publicist to cancel?" I ask, running my hands up and down his arms.

"No. I can't. I already asked. She says it's too important to cancel."

"Timmy, I think you're way to hard on yourself. You know that everybody loves you. You never, ever sound stupid." I tell him.

"I just... I was panicking about it that's all," he says, shaking his head, his brown curls falling in front of his eyes.

"It's okay. I'm sorry I didn't get home sooner," I say, tucking his curls behind his ears and holding his face in my hand. "Let's do something to take your mind off of it," I suggest. He nods, stress still painted across his perfect features.

I take his hand and pull him out of our bedroom, through the living room, and into our kitchen.

"How about we make some cookies?" I ask. He nods, and gives me a small smile as he sits at our kitchen table. Before I get the ingredients out, I pour him a glass of water and hand it to him.

"Thank you. I feel better. That kind of came out of nowhere. I'm sorry," he says, sipping the water.

"Don't apologize to me. I'm just glad you feel a little better. I'm sorry you had to go through that," I say. He smiles and stands to help me bake chocolate chip cookies - our favorite.