Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

3 | Let's Make A Deal

"Are probably filled with dark secrets you don't want to know about," she said. I opened my mouth to respond, but she reached over the table, shoving her finger against my lips harshly. I resisted the urge to swat it away. "I get that he's pretty, but don't go writing a romance novel about him."

I laughed weakly, "I can't even write."

"If you could, you'd be spouting out essays about the green of his eyes, or the way his French accent sounds calming, or the way his butt sways side-to-side as he walks."

"I never said anything about his butt!" I hissed, doubling back into my chair, "ew!"

"Don't ew me, Vera."

"You literally just scolded me for talking about his looks, and then you added in a totally irrelevant comment about his rear-end."

She smirked. "I did."

"You haven't even seen him in person!"

"You underestimate me, Vera. It seems you've forgotten that your best friend is a raging bisexual who's seen plenty of pretty men," she yawned, picking up her mug again, "it's like a sixth-sense to know he has at least some cake."

"I'm not talking to you," I whined, scrambling out of my chair, "this conversation is over."

Toni's giggles were drowned out when I lunged into my bed, shoving my face into my pillow case as I let out a scream. Boys, boys, boys, boys—they all sucked. Well, not all of them, but yeah, most of them.

I had a specific one in mind.

➢

TIMOTHÉE WALKED into the bakery an hour before it opened, a choir of angels singing as soon as he entered.

Okay, fine, there weren't choirs of angels, but that's besides the point. What I really mean to say is: Timothée walked into the bakery, looking just as beautiful as usual. I wish I could hold that sentence to him without doubt, but unfortunately that idea is tarnished with the fact that he left me to clean up those stupid apples by myself.

So I didn't say a word as he made his usual greetings to Bella, focused on the tray of Madeleines I was placing into the glass display. We weren't supposed to be open yet, but he walked in anyways—well aware of the fact that Bella never locks the door when she's inside.

He was wearing the same sunglasses as usual, balanced loosely on the bridge of his nose, but today he seemed to find solace in simplicity, wearing a white-tee, jean jacket, and tapered grey pants (not that I was looking at him, of course). My stubborn complex needed to shine through.

So even as he slid down his black frames to look at me, I focused on the madeleines. Keeping them in neat rows, making them look desirable, and tapping the metal tongs on the pan to knock off the crumbs. He was converged in his conversation with Bella now, but I could feel his glances flutter back towards me in between inaudible sentences.

If I could get a peek into his mind, I was almost certain it was filled with thoughts of disdain. I could imagine it now, even as I dropped the pan into the sink.

There's the idiot girl, he'd think (in French), she accused me of stealing, and made a fool of herself. I'm surprised she didn't quit her job out of sheer embarrassment. Maybe I should tell Bella to fire her, since I clearly know Bella and can go climbing through her basement windows without question...

...what am I doing?

If only I could somehow channel my inner rants into my own writing, because my mind seems to derive copious amounts of inspiration when it comes to my own disparities—which is just a fancy way of admitting that I'm a mess.