Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✧addict II✧

Trigger Warning: This describes drug addiction in serious detail. Please do not read if this could be triggering to you, and do not take this description lightly.

If you or someone you know are struggling with addiction, please reach out to this website: https://www.therecoveryvillage.com/drug-addiction/drug-abuse-hotline/

Your POV

"...don't know what to do. I think she's fine though... yeah... her breathing has been normal... okay... okay, I'll call you later."

It's Timmy's voice.

Where am I?

Visions from last night start floating through my mind as I lay flat on my back, eyes closed, regaining consciousness.

Fight.

Walking alone down the sidewalk.

Checking into the motel.

Shooting the heroin.

Feeling incredible.

Listening to Timmy sob as he holds me.

I start to sit up, slowly opening my eyes. That's when I realize I have the worst headache I've ever had before.

"Y/N... careful," Timmy sets his phone down on the table next to him and rushes over to me, holding putting his hand behind my upper back and helping me sit up. My head is coursing with pain. I squint my eyes and place my hand to my forehead with a groan.

I suddenly push him aside and swing my legs over the side of the bed, standing quickly and rushing towards the bathroom. I'm going to puke. I almost fall from the sudden movement, and end up collapsing in front of the toilet just in time. Timmy doesn't follow me in. I flush the toilet, wipe my mouth, and slump against the bathroom wall. I feel terrible. I lift up my hand and realize that it's shaking. Timmy finally comes in. He silently sits next to me and leans against the wall, his legs outstretched just like mine. His legs aren't shaking though.

"I'm sorry," I choke out. He takes a long deep breath.

He doesn't answer for a moment.

"Why would you do this again?" he asks.

I don't know. I don't know why I did it. This feeling is horrible. Suddenly the need for more takes over my brain. I need more. I need it.

"Where... hey..." a memory of him flushing my precious stash floods back into my head. Anger bubbles up inside of me. "Hey!" I say loudly. "You threw it away! Why did you throw it away? You threw it away - it was mine!" I yell, turning to face him.

He gives me an exasperated look.

"What the fuck? I threw it away because you can't do this anymore! You have to stop doing this!" he says back. I stare at him with anger for a few seconds - straight into his hard, green eyes - before breaking. He slowly wraps his arms around me and hugs me into his chest, letting me cry. I am screaming into him. I scream louder than I have in my entire life.

He shouldn't be here right now, sitting on the floor of some sketchy motel bathroom, holding his addict of a girlfriend. He's here because of me. I suck the life out of him.

After minutes of screaming with all my strength, I finally calm down, weeping into his sweatshirt. Eventually I pull back, and we both sit motionless against the wall, staring straight in front of us. I glance over at him. He looks confused, tired, and hurt.

I should be the one letting him scream into me.

"I don't know what to do, Y/N. I mean, what do you want me to do?" he asks.

"I'm sorry." It's all I can say.

"It took you so long to get where you were and now you're just back at square one."

"I know."

He sighs again.

"Who were you on the phone with?" I ask him. I wonder if it was my parents.

"Jack." Jack is his best friend.

"Who else did you tell?"

"Nobody."

I start to stand and almost fall over, but catch myself with the wall beside me. He gets up quickly and walks out of the bathroom. I glance at my reflection in the mirror before following him.

Holy shit. I look terrible. My skin looks freakishly pale, my hair is completely disheveled, and I accidentally puked on my flannel. I pull up my sleeve and examine my arm; the red needle prick is irritated and looks infected. I subconsciously scratch it while leaving the bathroom, trying to shake my reflection out of my head.

"I won't do it again," I tell him. He sits on the bed and runs his fingers through his curls.

"That's what you said last time."

"I... I know. But I mean it now. I really mean it. I promise you. I won't do it again. I won't. I'll get over this withdrawal. It's not nearly as bad as what I went through after doing it for months. I'll stop." It's true. I will stop. I never want to do this again.

"I want to believe you, Y/N, I really do," he says. He stands and walks over to me, he takes my hands in his own, holding them gently.

"I promise," I tell him. When I say it, I look straight into his eyes. He holds my gaze for a moment, his eyes conveying pure desperation, before he looks down and nods.

"Okay," he says softly. "Let's... let's go home then," he says. He breaks away from me and starts picking up my backpack and his phone.

***

The ride home is quiet. I stare out the window and watch the city buildings flash by. The pain in my head has worsened, if possible. I'm also still shaking. But this withdrawal is nothing like ones I've experienced in the past.

"Can we talk about last night?" he asks, bringing up our fight for the first time.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry for what I said to you. I shouldn't have said those things. They came out of anger. I didn't mean them," he tells me, staring at the road ahead.

"No, Timmy. I'm sorry that I accused you of all those things. That was so wrong of me. You're right. I was being too clingy, and too self-absorbed."

He shakes his head.

"I just... I feel bad that something I said to you made you do this. I feel responsible."

"You're not. I did this to myself. This was my own decision, but it won't happen again. I promise. I love you so much." I reach over and squeeze his arm. He nods, but I'm not convinced that he doesn't still blame himself.

When we get back home, I walk straight into our bedroom and crawl into bed. I just want to sleep. Timmy doesn't follow me in at first, but instead flops on the couch and turns on the TV. I know he's upset. I know I'm terrible for doing this to him. Eventually, though, I hear the TV shut off and he slowly walks into our room.

"Come on, you have to change," he says, looking at me still in my clothes from yesterday. I nod, only doing this because I feel so guilty for what I've done, and force myself out of bed. I rummage through our closet and grab some of my own sweatpants and one of his sweatshirts. He sits on the bed and faces the opposite direction as I put them on. I climb back into bed, now just barely keeping my eyes open. As I let them close, he wraps the blankets around me and lays next to me. His long arms find their place around my body, and he pulls me into his chest. He sinks his head against my shoulder.

I fall asleep next to him, guilt ripping in my chest at what I've done. He doesn't deserve this. I did it to him anyway. It won't happen again.

It won't happen again.