Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

◈tension◈

Your POV

"Just - just go to your room!" I scream.

"Fine! I don't even want to be around you anyway!" she screams back at me. "You're always nagging at me, and I put up with it all the time, even though you just stress me out even more! I'm sick of being controlled like this!"

She twirls around quickly and runs up the stairs, pounding her way to her room. I cringe at the sound of the door slamming. It seems to reverberate in my chest.

I stand there dumbstruck for a moment before sinking down onto the couch behind me and resting my face in my hands. I can't help the hot tears that escape my eyes. There's nothing worse than arguing with your daughter like that.

I hear the sound of our front door opening behind me and sit up straight, trying to wipe away my tears with the palm of my hand.

Timothée walks in, his arms full of brown grocery bags. He kicks the door shut behind him.

"I fucking hate the paparaz - what's wrong?" he instantly asks when he sees my face. He drops the bags to the floor, disregarding putting them in the kitchen.

I shake my head and bite my lip, trying to hold myself together.

He walks over to the couch and sits next to me. I press my face into his chest and let myself cry. I can't handle this anymore. I can't keep fighting with her like that.  

"Woah, woah, seriously, what happened?" he asks gently. He wraps both arms around me, rubbing my shoulder slowly.

"It's... y/d/n..." I say, sniffling and pulling away from him. He keeps his arm around me.

"Oh..." he says, an expression of understanding washing over his features.

"Yeah... I told her that I didn't want her out with Julie tonight. Because I know how Julie is, and she's been hanging out with her a lot, and I'm worried about the bad influences that whole group could have on her," I tell him.

He nods. This is something we've talked about before.

We're not helicopter parents. In any way. We honestly let her do whatever she wants most of the time because she's smart and level-headed. She's sixteen. She knows how to handle herself.

But her friend Julie, who she's been spending more and more time with, is just not a good influence. There's a whole group of kids that she's getting in with, and none of them seem to make good decisions. And it's getting to the point where Timmy and I stay up worrying about where y/d/n is with her.

"I thought we were going to wait to have that talk with her," Timmy says quietly.

"Yeah, I know, but she told me she was going out with them tonight and I just couldn't let her go. And I don't deserve to be screamed at like that - I mean, she screamed at me," I tell him.

He nods.

"I just feel bad that you two have been... fighting... a lot lately," he says.

It's true. We have been fighting more often. It's very easy to butt heads with a teenager.

"I just don't know what to do. I'm trying to be a good mom, but it's like I'm always the bad guy." I twist my fingers on my lap.

"I think that's just part of being a teenager. Hating your parents a little."

I snap my head up at the word "hate".

His eyes widen.

"No, no - I didn't mean "hate". I just mean, it can be hard for them, you know? I'm sorry," he rushes. I shake my head and look back down.