Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

❊wilting away II❊

Trigger Warning: This depicts description of eating disorders. If this could be triggering to you in any way, please do not read.

Your POV

Am I allowed to eat breakfast this morning?

Is what I think to myself as I step on the scale. I sigh in frustration at the number.

Nope.

I get off the scale and hold back tears of frustration. I'm not losing enough weight. I'm not even supposed to be losing weight. I'm not supposed to be checking my weight. I can't stop.

I stare at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look terrible. The bags under my eyes are prominent, my skin looks pale and sickly, and I just look awful. I quickly brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair before walking swiftly out of the bathroom, not wanting to see my appearance again.

I walk to our bedroom and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater before going to the kitchen. Timmy stands, leaning against the counter, drinking orange juice and scrolling on his phone.

"Good morning," he says. He's dressed to leave for work - he's filming a new movie. Today is his fourth day.

"Hey," I say, sliding onto one of the barstools under the counter.

"I'm sorry I have to leave in like, five minutes. I wish we had more time together in the mornings," he says, setting his phone down.

"Oh it's fine. I could just wake up earlier." I can't wake up earlier, because then we'd be in the bathroom together and I couldn't check my weight. This is fucking with my mind. Everything ties back to my eating disorder.

His phone dings with a notification

"Oh... awesome! It's Jamie - he says we don't have to come until 10 today!" Timmy says, glancing at the text.

"Yay! We can do something fun," I say. It's Friday, and I only work Mondays through Thursdays.

"We could go for a walk in Central Park. That's always fun," he suggests. Perfect. It will be fun, and it will burn calories. I shake my head. I need to stop thinking like that, but I don't want to.

"Sounds good," I say.

"What do you want for breakfast? I was going to pick something up on the way to set, but now I kind of just want to cook," he says.

"Oh... I'm not super hungry," I say, remembering the number on the scale. He looks at me.

He knows about my eating disorder. A few weeks ago, I finally opened up to him about what had been going on. I've struggled with it for a long time, and he knew about my past issues, but it was hard to admit that it was still a battle. I've been seeing a dietitian and a therapist since then, which puts Timmy's mind at ease. But food is a very touchy subject - he doesn't know where to press me about it and where to leave it be.

"Y/N... you have to eat breakfast," he says softly. He stands upright, no longer leaning nonchalantly against the counter. I close my eyes with frustration. I do not want to have this conversation right now.

"Tim, really. I'm not hungry," I tell him, opening my eyes again. He stands still, staring right at me with desperation.

"Well... please? Just eat breakfast. It will be good. You have to nourish your body," he says. This is one of the most explicit times we've talked openly about this.

I'm going to lose this battle, and worry him by fighting.

"Okay. Fine. I'm just not hungry though, that's all," I say. He nods, but doesn't sway his opinion.