Page 93 of Falling Off Script

She nods. “And that scares you more than the leak?”

I let out a dry laugh. “At least the leak got me views.”

I look down at my hands. “I keep thinking about how it sounded. That voice memo.”

Dr. Lisa waits.

“I wasn’t performing,” I say slowly. “I wasn’t filtered. I wasn’t even fully awake. And somehow that version of me got broadcast like a TED Talk for horny insomniacs.”

Lisa’s lips twitch. “And how did that feel?”

“Like I got pantsed in public. By myself. In hi-fi stereo.”

She nods again. “But he didn’t use it against you.”

“No.” I swallow. “And that’s the part that wrecks me. He didn’t mock it. Didn’t quote it. Didn’t even meme it. He just... disappeared. Like some noble raccoon returning the trash it stole.”

Dr. Lisa doesn’t laugh at that one either. Just says, “Maybe he was overwhelmed.”

“Oh, definitely. Nothing terrifies a man more than intimacy and good audio quality.”

Now she does smile. And I can tell it’s not just a therapist smile. It’s a mom smile. And I’m not sure which one is more dangerous.

“He may surprise you,” she says. “Eventually.”

I squint at her. “Are you... hinting? Is this, like, woman-to-woman telepathy or something?”

She gives me that maddeningly serene expression again. “Let’s just say I know how long it usually takes him to have a feeling. And then google it. And then maybe act on it.”

I snort. “So I just sit here and manifest?”

“No. You go live your life. On purpose.”

She pauses, then adds, “He’s like a GPS. Brilliant at telling everyone else where to go, but absolutely hopeless when he’s the one who’s lost.”

I stare at her. “So I fell for an emotionally unavailable Garmin.”

“Give it time,” she says, smiling again.

And this time, I can’t help it—I smile back.

43. Adrian

Jessie is halfway to the door when I say, “So you’ll help me?”

Jessie stops but doesn’t turn around right away. Her hand rests on the doorknob like she’s weighing the exit. Then she turns—slow, suspicious, like I’ve just offered her a free trial with no catch.

“You mean it?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She lets out a sigh, like she's calculating the emotional labor cost of re-engaging with my chaos. Her eyes narrow, not unkind, but definitely wary. Like I’m a slightly dangerous dog she’s fed before.

She raises an eyebrow. “No backup plan? No subtle pitch? No seven-layer logic pyramid about how this helps your brand and singlehandedly repairs your public image with a well-timed tear and a humble flex?”

“No.”

“Not even a vibe deck?”

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