Lockdown on London Lane

I hit record.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath, looking at myself on the screen and nodding. My hair’s standing up more than usual and my shirt is a little rumpled. I straighten my glasses and gulp.

“Okay, Ethan, come on, you can do this.”

I was never good at public speaking.

I used to do my best to get out of giving presentations at school.

I got so nervous doing one to my tutorial group of a mere six students in university that I actually threw up. Whenever I meet strangers for the first time, I get so in my head trying to not make a bad impression, at the very least, that I think most of the time they think I’m just being standoffish and rude. (Lucky for me, Charlotte’s a natural charmer, and good with people, and it’s easy to ride on her coattails when we have to mingle with strangers at our friends’ weddings and stuff.) I started making video diaries years ago, after a suggestion from my therapist, who thought it would help with my social anxiety—and would at least help me get through the video interview stage of all the jobs I was applying for during my final year of university. And she was right: there was something about talking to the void and interacting with a handful of total strangers on the internet that was strangely comforting.

I was only supposed to try it out for a month, but I kept it going even after I stopped seeing the therapist, and once the video interviews for jobs were out of the way. I started putting more effort into the channel, investing in better equipment, devoting more time to learning how to edit properly. I thought about what I actually wanted to make videos about, and figured out what I actually liked doing, cross-referencing that with what got the best response from my gradually growing audience to decide what to make the focus of my channel. Eventually, I found my niche: video games and nerd culture.

There’s still something about talking to the void and yet knowing someone is listening that I love.

Right now, I just hope it’ll be enough to get my head straight.

I figure if I sit and talk at the camera for long enough, I can go back through it tomorrow, before Charlotte gets back, and find something articulate enough to rehearse saying to her.

“Right. Here goes.”

My hands shake, and I wipe them on my jeans because they’ve started to sweat. I look into the camera lens, and go for it.

“Dear Charlotte . . . I’ve known you for two and a half years. I walked into you and almost knocked you on your butt, but you were the one who swept me off my feet. No—no, that’s . . . that’s shit. When we first met, I was supposed to be on a date with someone else. I’ve never been so glad to have been stood up in my life. I can still remember you picking popcorn out of your hair and popcorn falling out of your coat when I took you to dinner after the film. That was the first time I saw a movie alone, but now I’ve got you in my life, I know I’ll never have to watch anything alone ag— aaaaaaaaah, God, that’s even worse.

“Dear Charlotte. You’re beautiful. I don’t know if I tell you that enough, but it’s true. You’re beautiful when you don’t blow-dry your hair and it just—” I wave my hands out at the sides of my head, mimicking it “—it just goes out, like that, and it looks bloody awful. You’re beautiful when you’re reading something really cute in a book and you have to put it down and breathe for a moment, and you do that thing where you hold your face like you have to physically contain yourself, you can’t handle how cute it is that the characters are finally kissing, or whatever. You’re beautiful even when—oh my God, this is negging, isn’t it? I’m negging you.

Fuck. Who ever tried to— ugh. No.

“Dear Charlotte. I’ve loved you since the moment I met you, and I don’t believe I’ll ever stop. I want to be ninety years old and sitting next to you rewatching the Twilight movies because you want to feel like a teenager again and there’s absolutely nothing else on TV.

I want you to sit through a Lord of the Rings marathon with me for the billionth time and still not have a clue who Sauron is, or why Gollum wants the ring, or which one’s Merry and which one’s Pippin. I—yeah, I’m still going to be a nerd when I’m ninety, if we’re not all dead from this stupid virus by then and wow, nope, that took a turn, didn’t it?

Balls. I probably shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t be morbid, when I’m trying to ask you to . . . Yeah, that’ll work great, huh? Super romantic. Let’s elope before we all die. Jesus, Ethan.”

I hunch forward, tugging at my hair, and let out a long, loud, exasperated groan.

At least it’s going better than when I was trying to do this on paper.

I take a few breaths and sit back up, squaring my shoulders and trying again.

Once I’ve decided what I’m going to say, exactly, the worst will be over.

When she gets home on Sunday, I’ll cook Charlotte her favorite meal (my so-called “famous” enchiladas, all gluten-free, of course), and crack open a bottle of the wine she likes so much. Not the

“special occasion” wine, obviously, that would be too suspect. But the good wine. I’ll say it’s to celebrate her finally coming home.

I might even make dessert. Something fancy, like a cheesecake. Or maybe just some brownies—a gluten-free cheesecake seems a little too ambitious.

“And after dessert,” I say out loud, reciting the plan to the camera so I don’t forget it, “I’ll reach across the table and take your hand, and tell you how beautiful you look, and how happy I am that you’re back, and that I’ve missed you, and . . . and you’ll say you missed me, too, and then I’ll launch into this big speech, and tell you—well, I’ll tell you something, because I’ll have figured it out by then, and you’ll probably start crying once you realize where it’s going and what I’m doing, and then I’ll keep hold of your hand and get down on one knee, and you’ll probably barely even let me get the words out before you say yes and kiss me, and . . . Jesus, what am I going to say?”

I’m still there thirty-eight minutes later.

“Dear Charlotte,” I sigh, and I smile just to think about her smile. “I love you. I think I could talk for hours—weeks—about why, and how much, but what other reason do I need? I don’t have a ring, or some stupid, great big plan like something out of the movies and books you love, or rose petals to sprinkle on the floor or anything like that, but I fucking love you, and that’s enough for me. So—marry me?”

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