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?”
*
“What’s up guys, it’s Ethan here. Mad Man Maddox back once again, and I still can’t believe you guys let that stupid nickname catch on, but I kind of love it. Happy Friday night! You know, in case you’re also going a little stir-crazy right now and need a reminder of what day it is . . . I’m joined tonight by a few beers and, obviously, Call of Duty. I was hoping to be playing everyone’s favorite— Animal Crossing: New Horizons, but unfortunately, doesn’t seem like I can broadcast live from my Switch, so you’ll have to stick to my YouTube channel for that. Don’t forget to subscribe at emaddox, and I’d say find me on Twitter, too, but to be honest I mainly just retweet TikTok videos so it’s not even worth it.”
It takes me a couple of minutes to get into the flow of my Twitch stream because I’m still thinking about the perfect way to propose to Charlotte, but I fall into the familiar rhythm of a video game and talking to some of the fans watching along, responding to the comments they’re posting in the live chat.
For the first time all week, I forget that the world is a shitshow right now, how scary everything is, how out of sorts I’ve felt these last few days. At least for a little while, everything feels totally normal.
It feels like I can breathe again.
I spot Charlotte’s name on the live chat and laugh.
“My girlfriend’s watching along tonight too. You’ll probably spot her in the chat. Everybody say hi, Charlotte. Hi, Charlotte! ” I say for them, in a high-pitched, silly voice. “Usually she’d be sitting just out of sight on the sofa next to me and trying to tune me out, but this week unfortunately, she’s at her parents’ place. Yeah, our place is on lockdown, and she was just going home for the weekend since they live a couple hours’ drive away. Had free reign of the apartment all week. How about that, huh? I’m kidding, obviously. Charl, it’s been miserable without you.”
I have to stop there, before I go on about just how much I miss her.
It’s not like I don’t care if anybody watching thinks I’m talking about her too much or anything. I’m more worried I’ll run my mouth and say something I want to keep for the grand proposal.
Or worse, get so nervous I can’t shut up, and then blurt the whole thing out.
As ten o’clock rolls around, I draw the stream to an end.
“Don’t forget to check out my YouTube channel emaddox tomorrow morning for a new video, and I’ll be back here next Tuesday with another livestream. But that’s it from me for now, have a good night everybody—and to my girlfriend, Charlotte, if she’s still watching and hasn’t gotten so bored she’s fallen asleep, goodnight, and I’ll see you Sunday.”