Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

❃ rejected ❃

Your POV

I refresh the page for the thousandth time today.

Status Update

Oh my god.

It's here.

All I have to do is click on that button, and I'll be able to see a letter that defines my entire life. I can picture it now; strolling down the campus sidewalks amongst the trees, so close to the bay, sunshine year-round.

Do I want to do this alone? Yes. I definitely want to be alone - whatever the result is. Timothée is downstairs working, but I can't do this with another person. It has to be just me.

I move my cursor over the button, and squeeze my eyes shut tight before clicking on it. I can't look. But I have to.

Adrenaline courses through my body. Every nerve seems to be on fire.

My eyes skip the first sentence and hover on the words: unable to offer you admission.

Unable to offer you admission.

I don't quite register it at first.

Unable to offer you admission.

I feel the sting of rejection course through my entire body. One word instantly comes to mind, and I can't block it out.

Failure.

All of this hard work. All of these straight As. All of these extracurriculars. My 4.2 GPA. The essays a wasted my time writing.

It's all gone to waste. None of that stress mattered in the long run.

I didn't even make the wait list.

I haven't moved since I read the letter. I'm still staring at the screen like a deer in headlights, my face slack with shock. I finally move lifelessly, standing up and walking slowly down the stairs. Timothée is sitting at my kitchen table, working on something.

He looks up with raised eyebrows at me, wondering if I've received a decision yet. I see his face fall slightly when he registers the expression on mine.

"I didn't get in," I choke out the words. It's easier to say, 'I didn't get in', than, 'I got rejected.'

"What?" he asks, his voice breathy.

But by that time I'm all the way back upstairs, walking into my room. I shut the door quickly and sit on my bed, my back against the wall. I hug my knees tightly against my body, wrapping myself up and sobbing silently.

Unable to offer you admission.

It's over. All of that work for nothing.

I can feel the vision of my ideal future fading away by the second; those vivid images in my mind become black and white.

I never want to leave my room again. I never want to put effort towards anything again.

I keep my face pressed to my knees and squeeze myself as tightly as possible, wanting to curl into the smallest ball I can and disappear into nothing.

I was so foolish to be hopeful. I shouldn't have expected acceptance, or even to be wait-listed.

Minutes later, I am still in the same position, the rejection seeping deep in my bones now.

I hear a soft nock on my door. I don't answer.

I hear the door slowly creak open, and the bed sinks down next to me.

Timothée wraps his long arms around my curled body, and I shake with pure sadness.

I press the side of my face to his chest, wetting his hoodie with my tears. He squeezes me tighter.

I can't handle this. On top of everything else that feels like it's spiraling downwards in my life right now, I can't handle this too.

My horrific sobs turn into languid ones after a very, very long time.

I'm left a sniffling mess, now sort of laying on my side with my head in his lap, my knees still curled tightly to my chest. His hand rests on my clasped ones, and he slowly runs one finger side to side against my skin. This feeling of comfort pokes through the weight of rejection only slightly.

He leans down and gently kisses my temple.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers.

I can't answer.

"This is horrible, and I'm so sorry you have to go through this. But you are so smart, and creative, and innovative. They don't know what they're missing out on. You are so hard on yourself, and you don't give yourself enough credit for what you've gone through. Just know that this terrible, gut-wrenching feeling won't last forever. And I know you can get through this too, because you've already dealt with so much other shit. You can't let this define you - I know you. I know how hard you are on yourself. You can't let this define you," he repeats.

His voice soothes me, and numbs some of the pain in my chest. He takes the hand that isn't on mine and smooths my hair back gently. I'm still weeping, but not in a monstrous way like I was a few minutes ago.

"I just f-feel like such a f-failure," I say quietly, shutting my eyes as hot tears stream down my skin.

"I know. But you're not. It just wasn't a right fit. And they're the ones missing out on you," he tells me. "Seriously, I say that with honesty. They are missing out."

"Thanks," I whisper.

He lets me lay on him for what seems like hours. We just sit in silence, him running his long fingers through my hair and holding me close to him. My tears don't stop for a very long time, but I don't really care. Eventually I slowly sit up and rub my eyes. My entire face must be a puffy, red disaster.

"I'm gonna get you a glass of water... why don't you come downstairs? I'll make us tea and we can watch a movie."

I nod. I honestly want to be alone, but I know that what I need is to be near him.

We both walk out of my room and I turn to the bathroom, splashing my face with cool water and washing my tears off of my skin. I pat my face dry and walk downstairs, where Timmy is already boiling water for tea.

"Are you hungry? It's dinner time. We could order out or I could cook something," he tells me.

"I'm not hungry," I tell him. My voice sounds strained and lifeless. I walk to the couch and sit on it, slumping back and waiting for him.

Eventually he comes over with two mugs of tea and turns on the TV.

"How about Disney?" he asks. I just nod.

"Princess and the Frog?" he asks kindly. I nod again.

He hands me my tea and I take a small sip of it. Herbal lemon. Delicious. It warms my stomach and ebbs that terrible feeling away a tiny, tiny bit. He reaches his arm to me and I move closer to him, laying my head on his shoulder as he wraps his arm around my waist and holds me gently but comfortingly against him. With his other hand, he pulls out his phone.

"I'm ordering from Buvette, because I'm hungry and you might be sometime. What do you want?" he asks, pulling up the menu on his phone.

"Nothing. Really. I'm not hungry."

"I'll just get you your usual," he says offhandedly. He would never take no as an answer, so I don't fight it, but continue watching the movie. It's nice, and it distracts me.

At some point the food arrives and Timmy has to get up to get it. He opens mine for me, but I truly am not hungry. I feel nauseous, actually, and I have a very, very terrible strain headache.

He eats his, and puts mine in the fridge for later before coming back and wrapping me against him like before. He also wraps a heavy blanket around us.

At some point, I fall into a deep sleep with my head against his shoulder.

yeah I got rejected, and this is exactly how I feel and all of the physical effects it had on me. I feel like I'm back at square one. all of that hard work and I don't reap the benefits. I literally want to dissolve into thin air.