PART 5: Dear Charlotte - Chapter 1

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Hi again, everyone! Can you believe this is the final short story in the book??

(OR IS IT?! More on that at the end of Part 5...)

Massive thank you AGAIN to everyone who's been reading and commenting - Lockdown on London Lane passed 165,000 reads today! Whoohoo! It's been so much fun to be posting something brand-new on Wattpad. 

And thanks to everyone for your lovely messages about an old Wattpad book - ICYMI, last week we announced that The Kissing Booth 2 will be dropping on Netflix July 24th! You can grab your copy of the book, TKB2: Going the Distance, from the Book Depository now - they ship free, worldwide!

Anyway - this week, in Part 5: Dear Charlotte, we see how Ethan is coping as he tries to plan the perfect proposal for his girlfriend Charlotte... what can possibly go wrong?!


It's automatic, the way I roll over when I'm not even fully awake yet, my arm out to pull her closer

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It's automatic, the way I roll over when I'm not even fully awake yet, my arm out to pull her closer. Today, like every day in the last week, it falls through empty space, and my eyes snap open before I remember why the bed is empty.

It's automatic, when I fill the kettle with too much water for just me, and get the pink mug with the swirly gold 'Hello Sunshine' motif on it she likes to use in the mornings off the mug tree and put a tea bag in it, before I remember she's not putting her makeup on in the bedroom and I don't need to make her a cup of tea.

It's automatic, when I pick up the TV remote and open my mouth to turn to her and ask if she wants to watch another episode of The Mandalorian. When I wonder what we'll have for dinner or when I order a large pepperoni pizza and make it gluten free before remembering I don't have to, because she's not even here to eat it. When I put away the laundry and wonder if that t-shirt is one that she hangs in the wardrobe or folds in the drawers.

And it is so, so, blindly obvious to me, all the places that Charlotte is missing this week.

I go back into the bedroom to get dressed after making myself a cup of tea, and the sheets are still kicked at the bottom of the bed, the throw pillows still in a heap on the floor. I thought it was ridiculous when she bought them – who needed five throw pillows, and especially when two of them cost twenty quid each? But now, I make the bed, smooth the sheets out, and stack the throw cushions carefully, and sigh when it doesn't look as nice as when she does it.

I miss sitting at my desk and leaning back, stretching out, looking out at the balcony, and not seeing her carefully watering the collection of plants we bought together at the garden centre last year.

I hate that I realise I've been hunched over my computer a little too long, and she's not here to come stand behind me, fingers lightly massaging my neck before she leans down to hug me and murmur, "Come on, Ethan, sweetie, you need a break."

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