Dear G

Georgie Hall is young, single and free. She has a job that she loves: writing the problem page on a teen's magazine. Everyday she gets emails. They're mostly the same, boy trouble, our arguments with friends. These, she knows how to answer. When she gets a letter from a young girl fighting leukaemia, she doesn't know how to reply. After meeting the girl, Charlie, Georgie is determined to help her beat her disease.

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1. Deadlines

Dear G

Chapter One-Deadlines

Georgie’s P.O.V

 

I kicked off my converse near the door, threw my bags somewhere behind the sofa, and flopped down into my desk chair. My best friend Ally and I had just been shopping, because she was going to the Caribbean for three weeks with her family tomorrow (talk about last minute!), and I was exhausted. I had bought three new tops, four dresses, two pairs of shorts and a pair of jeans, two jackets, and six new pairs of shoes. What can I say? I like shopping, plus I had quite a lot of money right now- I was always well off and now, I had three jobs.

The first was a part-time job at the local Starbucks, and the second was part-time at New Look, so I got a staff discount at both places. My third job was by far my favourite though. I wrote the Agony Aunt page for a teen magazine, which was great, but sometimes weird, some of the girls that write in are older than me, yet I give them advice. I have had this job for nearly two years; I got it after I finished college, after I decided I didn’t want to go to Uni. In almost two years, I had gotten many, many emails. They were mostly the same:

Dear G,

There’s this boy in my year that I really like, and I think he likes me back, but I don’t know what to do! Help!

Or:

Dear G,

Two of my closest friends are arguing. It’s been going on for a few months, and it’s really getting on my nerves. I really want them to stop fighting, but I don’t want to take sides. Please tell me what to do!

Then, there was the awkward stuff:
Dear G,

I have really bad skin. I want it to clear up, and I’ve tried loads of creams and washes, but nothing seems to be working. I need your help!

I knew how to answer all of these. Even the really, really, awkward stuff. It was easy to reply. In college, I had studied psychology and medicine (weird mix, I know, but they both fascinated me), so I knew what I was talking about, with the skin and stuff, and relationships.

Speaking of e-mails…

I switched on my Apple Mac, and after a minute, I saw that I had sixteen emails. Nothing out of the ordinary. I opened the first one, and saw that it asked for a personal reply, which means that it wouldn’t be put in the magazine, I would just reply. This one was boy trouble. I put on my glasses, real glasses by the way, and replied. I glanced at the subjects of the others, and saw that only one other was a personal reply. That was good. Last week, out of fifteen emails, eight were personal reply. I looked at the others.

Two hours later, I had gone through all the emails from today, and the previous week, and chosen the six to go in the magazine. I wrote my replies on word, and emailed it as an attachment to my boss, Sabina. Sabina was strict, but she was nice. As I only had to go into the office twice a week (the two days before the week’s issue of the magazine was out), I didn’t see her much, but she liked me anyway, because I always had my pages in early, and I ‘didn’t cause trouble’. I was like a daughter to her; we bought each other gifts at Christmas, and on birthdays.

My own mother was dead. She was coming home from work five years ago, and there was a drunk driver. She died on impact. It was hard, but with help, dad and I got over it. It was still hard, but it got easier, and I tried to always have a smile on my face, tried to think happy thoughts.

I got up out of my desk chair, and lay down on my sofa. I slept here half of the time, even though my room was next door. I loved my apartment, it was small, but it was cosy. Besides, it didn’t really matter, the many windows made it seem more spacious. Anyway, all I needed in an apartment was a den, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. And that it was close to my father, so I could see him every other day. I stared out of the skylight in the roof, looking at the constellations. I drifted off to sleep, wondering if anyone else was looking at the same part of the sky that I was right now.

 

 

Charlie’s P.O.V

 

I glanced at the items on my desk. A few plasters, some tablets, a bottle of water, a stack of books, and the latest issue of a magazine I had picked up at the shop. Usually I read it through and through, but today, I didn’t feel like it. It was left open on a random page, probably landed like that when I threw it on there.

I got up off my bed, and wiped my eyes with my sleeve. Sitting on my comfy window seat, I stargazed. Thoughts popped into my head. I frowned. They could live for thousands of years. They didn’t have a deadline. I did. 14 months.

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A/N: Hey guys! Here's my second story. There's not much of Charlie in this one, and there might not be much of her next chapter, but you'll see more of her towards chapter 4/5. xxx 

Anyway, please vote/comment/like/whatever else you want to do xxxx

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