Page 20 of Falling Off Script

Beat. No blinking. Minimal humanity.

“You need to be strong to be safe.”

I stare down the lens like it owes me child support.

“The world doesn’t wait for your comfort. It waits for your clarity.”

Another beat.

“No fluff. No feelings. Just forward.”

I hit stop. Exhale.

It's garbage, but it’sstrategicgarbage. It’s the kind of clip that gets reposted with captions like “He gets it” and “Masculinity redefined.” It’s a mask. Clickable and market-tested.

I upload it with the caption:

No apologies. Just protocol.

#IronMind #AlphaInProgress #NoMoreFeelings

Then I sit back and wait for the engagement to flood in like validation laced with dopamine.

But my mind’s still stuck on Jessie.

I think about her laughing in the kitchen yesterday. About how she didn’t flinch when I told her most branding is justunresolved dad issues with a logo. About how she organized my content calendar in under thirty minutes and then casually asked if I believed in moral gray zones “as a brand or as a person.” I didn’t answer.

Because I don’t know.

And because—

Yeah. Never mind.

Her loyalty isn’t neutral. It’s timestamped.

I should fire her.

But if I do, I’ll never know what she already told Emily.

And worse—what she mightstilltell her.

So I keep her close.

I wipe the matcha order from my Uber Eats history.

I tell the team to stop using words like “restorative” in public memos.

I post another video about grit. Grit is safe. Grit doesn’t cry in the car after visiting his mom.

Speaking of which... I glance at my calendar. A red reminder sits there, chirpy and cheerful and devastating:

“Call Mom.”

Jesus...

I hover. Just hover. Like deleting it would make me an orphan.

I should call her.

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