ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

041

"Hey," I say into my phone.

It's a bit past 11 PM. I'm sitting on my bed, back against my pillows, journal on my lap. When my phone began ringing, my arm had flung at light-speed to pick it up — though I held it in front of me for several seconds before accepting the call.

"Hi. Thought you'd be up." As much as his voice is warmth, all I need to simply take a deep breath and be thankful that we finally get to talk, it also serves as another reminder of just how far he is.

"It's gotta be really early over there. What are you doing up?" I swallow the lump in my throat, speaking in a slightly high-pitched tone to hide my current state, blinking and wiping my cheeks with my hand.

"Yeah, it's four AM. Woke up and couldn't seem to get back to sleep, and I knew you'd be up. And I haven't heard your voice in a while."

I miss staying up with him.

"I know. Guess you finally won the game of tag."

He laughs softly. I picture how his face must look as he does. "I'm sorry about that."

"Hey, no. It's both of us." I wipe at my nose, sniffling away from the phone speaker, blinking several times. "I miss you."

"I miss you. So much," he says.

"What were you going to read? Your script?"

"Actually, no. I picked up a used copy of Little Women at a nearby bookstore."

"Little Women? That's my favorite book." My heart, which was racing only a couple of minutes ago, has finally begun slowing down.

"Really? You might love this news, then."

"Oh?."

"Greta's adapted Little Women into a screenplay, and she's directing, too — she wants me to play Laurie."

Images of Christian Bale as Laurie Laurence in the 1994 adaptation flash into my mind, stirring up memories of watching it over and over with my brother when we were kids. I tell Timothee all about it. The bewilderment and congratulations! and girlish squeals of I'm so proud! which I shower him over the phone make me wish even more that he were right in front of me.

He gushes about working with Greta and Saoirse (or "Sersh" as he calls her) again, playing a role that Christian Bale originated, and being in a film with Meryl Streep. I imagine his red, blushing face as he talks, his fingers scratching at his neck and the way his face lights up like the sun, how the sleeping city must look right now from his balcony.

"So what are you up to? Are you getting ready for bed? Have you had your tea yet?" he asks, suddenly redirecting the conversation to me. Even though I wanted to keep listening to him talk.

"You do know me. I just drank some chamomile." My voice cracks. I blink, and it pushes a tear from my eye. I reach to my desk for a tissue, and I blow my nose, sniffling after I do so.

"Wait, have you been crying?"

"Oh? No, no, allergies," I reply, sniffling again.

"Wait, why are you crying?" he says in one breath, ignoring me. His voice is a raspy half-whisper, and it pushes out more tears.

"I'm not!" I say, crying.

I cover my mouth with my hand as silent tears trickle out, turning away from my phone for a second. I vaguely hear his voice from those several inches away — "Hey, what's the matter? What's going on?"

I don't deserve him.

"Breathe, alright?," I hear him say, my ear to the receiver again. "Hey, listen to me. Breathe. I'm right here. Tell me what's wrong."

"It's really nothing, I promise. I'm sorry. Just a lot of thinking this week, and before you called I was journaling and writing a lot down and I promise I'm fine. I'm okay."

I hear him inhale. "Okay. I understand, I do. I'm right here. Just breathe."

"I'm scared," I suddenly hear myself say like a child's whimper.

"Wait, why? What's going on?"

"I'm scared that Luke is going to find me," I hear myself spill out. "Like I know I'm past it, all of it, and it's been almost a year, but I think — I just feel guilty sometimes for being so hasty with the restraining order. It all happened so quickly."

"Marley, you know he very well could've—" he cuts himself off. "You did what you needed to do, you weren't too hasty, you didn't do anything wrong. He was the one treating you like shit, so you did what you needed to do. Don't you dare feel guilty for that. And it's okay to not be past it."

"I know, I know." I inhale. "I just haven't thought much about it in a while. I think it was just getting to me this week."

"You know you can talk to me about this."

"But I shouldn't. I'm sorry for putting all of this on you, you already have so much on your plate."

"Don't say that. Is that what you think? That isn't true, you know you can tell me what's going on, you know we tell each other everything. You know you've got me."

"Do I?" is what comes out on accident.

There's a pause. "What?"

Shit. "Nothing."

"Marley."

"Why do you want this, Timmy, why?" I blurt. I stand up, and suddenly I'm pacing my room anxiously. "What do you see in me?"

"Where is this coming from?"

"Isn't it going to end anyways?" I nearly whisper, shaking.

"How what is going to end?"

I can't say anything more. I've already said too much.

"You think this isn't going to work. Is that what you think?"

I'm shaking. "Don't you think that sometimes, too?"

"Gee, I don't know, Marley. I guess by making the effort to fly you out here so I can see you and so that you can be here, yeah I guess that's exactly what I think."

I close my eyes. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I—"

"Marley, is this not what you want?" And I hear his voice crack.

"No, Timmy no, I didn't mean—"

"Do you think this is easy for me?" He snaps, agitation on his tone, and it catches me off guard. "You think I'm having an absolute ball with all of this, finally meeting someone that I want to be with, someone who is beautiful in all of the most perfect and imperfect ways and I have a real, real connection with, but just a month before I have to leave the country for five months? You think I'm not terrified you'll meet someone else, someone who's actually there and doesn't have a lifestyle like mine and isn't attached to fame, and who can actually be fucking next to you when you're feeling like this instead of across the ocean? This isn't fucking simple." His voice breaks. "Marley, I feel helpless."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, my cheeks wet, my chest hurting. "Timmy. I'm sorry."

I hear him inhale and exhale deeply. "Maybe we both do need some rest. Okay?"

"Okay," I push out of my mouth.

"Okay." There's a pause, and I feel it pierce the air around me, and it hurts. "Goodnight, Marley."

Please don't go, please don't go yet.

"Sleep well and get some rest, okay?" I say, swallowing the sob in my throat.

"I will. You too."

"Goodnight, Timmy."

"Goodnight. I'll talk to you soon."

The call disappears from my screen, like scissors cutting the string that connected our metal cans.

Maybe I was the one with the scissors.

Like he wasn't far enough away already.