g 🌼

You turned to see Timothee stepping out of the restroom, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

As he approaches you, you hand him his cup, noticing the tremble in his hand. “Are you alright, baby?” 

He swallows a mouthful of his drink before looking away from Janet and staring at you with a scowl on his face, “I’m fine. I just think lunch might have been a bad idea today.”

You frowned, reaching over to hold his hand. But he pulled it away, grimacing momentarily before looking back at Janet. 

Janet who now appeared to have a shit-eating grin. 

“Hi Timmy,” she said sweetly.

“Janet,” he nodded. “How are you?”

“I’m doing wonderful. Just had a lovely chat with Y/N and how great everything on set was and how great the whole cast got along and everything!”

His face turned serious, but it lasted for a couple of seconds before he started, “Well, I hate to be rude, but I think Y/N and I should be heading out. Stomach problems and all.” 

Janet pouted, “Leaving so soon? I thought we would have a chance to catch up, like old times.” At the end of her sentence, her mischievous smile was back. 

“I’m afraid Jack Skellington over here is going to hurl his way through Brooklyn,” You smiled, “I’m sure we can invite you to Timothee’s apartment for dinner soon!” 

“I would absolutely love that!”

“Great!” You continued to smile, happy to see that Timothee hadn’t completely ruined this friendship by being rude. “I’ll make sure he sends you the address.” 

--

Brooklyn saw me, empty at the news // There's no water inside this swimming pool.

You’re putting some groceries away when you suddenly remember your promise about sending Janet the address.

While not necessarily someone you’re eager to meet, you know that Timothee isn’t always queued into how much people want to be his friend. It’ll do him good to have another friend.

He’s taking a nap in his room and you coo at how cute he looks when he’s snuggled up into your pillow. You quickly grab his phone from the nightstand and make your way back into the living room. 

Scrolling through your contacts, you can’t seem to find Janet’s number. Looking once more, you can’t find her number and decide to just take some random selfies on Timothee’s phone before returning it. 

But it’s after taking 30 random, goofy photos and it’s after you enter his photo gallery that you find them. 

And they’re just sitting there.

They’re not hidden. Or cropped. Or locked in a random note. 

And it’s her.

It’s her in different rooms.

It’s her in different positions.

It’s her at different times of the day. 

And it’s his hands. 

It’s his hands gripping.

It’s his hands holding her.

It’s his hands caressing her body.

And there’s videos of her. 

And there’s videos of them.

And there’s even one of him, being held down by her.

And they’re sexual.

And erotic.

And passionate.

And all you see is love in his eyes. 

It’s what you thought you saw in his eyes. 

But sometimes all you see in people’s eyes is your own reflection. 

--

Almost over, had enough from you. // And I've been praying, I never did before. 

He finds you when you’re zipping up your final bag. 

“Are we going somewhere?” He asks, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“It’s your apartment, why would you be going somewhere?” 

“What’s with the packing?” He moves closer, trying to see if there’s something he’s missing about the situation. 

He places his hand on your arm, and when you turn to face him, he finally sees the anger written all over your face.

“Wh-what’s wrong?” He asks, sounding nervous. 

“I’m leaving,” you say. Your voice doesn’t waver. Your eyes don’t water. You pray -- you pray really fucking hard -- that all he sees is your stone-cold face. Unbothered. Unbroken. 

He stares at you, his eyes searching for the punchline.

“I woke up this morning and I realized,” you said, your voice firm. “I realized that I don’t love you.”

“I don’t--” he began.

“I’ve had enough of you.” You zipped your final bag. “I’m over pretending to feel anything for you.” 

“You can’t fucking leave!” He says as he jumps off the bed, attempting to stop you from grabbing your suitcases. “You can’t leave me like this.

You can’t fucking pretend that the last year wasn’t the best year of your life. And you can’t tell me you didn’t kiss me with meaning. And you can’t tell me you’re over me!” 

He’s crying without hindrance and you feel your heart fill with nothing but pity.

He did this to himself.

“Whatever you think I did,” he says as he sniffles. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. For all of it. For every single thing I did!”

He continues to cry as he attempts to pull you into his arms. “Please, whatever it is. I love you.”

He manages to get a hold of your upper arm, and he squeezes lightly. “I know you love me. Please don’t do this.” 

“Let me go,” you whisper. You don’t mean to let your voice waver, but you can’t bear to hear his false declarations of love. 

After seeing the seriousness and the determination that’s written on your face, he lets you go.

You grab your suitcase from the ground and you make your way towards the door. 

“Timothee,” you say, not bothering to turn around to see him. You know he’s looking. You can feel his agony burn through your bones.

“The next time you decide to cheat on someone,” you hear his sniffling stop abruptly. “Maybe don’t lead someone on for months.” 

He doesn’t say anything, so you continue.