Page 19 of Falling Off Script

Jessie would’ve said something. Right?

Except she didn’t.

And now I’m flashing back—her casually mentioning she once edited a “small podcast project.”

Oh my God.

I hired the Zeta Slayer’s right hand.

And the worst part? I didn’t mean to hire a spy. She was just sharp. Quick. Unflappable. Found a typo in ouronboarding packet and pitched a better tagline before I’d finished my coffee.

But now?

She’s a plant. A double agent. A sleeper cell in Docs and Slack.

I open my Google Drive and brace for impact.

Yep. There it is.

A document titled “Notes on Male Loneliness.”

It’s not even subtle. Just pages of half-baked thoughts like:

Maybe men don’t fear intimacy. Maybe they fear being disappointing when finally seen.

What if confidence isn’t armor? What if it’s being willing to stay after the apology?

Delete. Trash. Burn it with fire.

Next up: “Things I Wish My Dad Taught Me.”

Absolutely not. That one gets zipped, encrypted, renamed “April Tax Estimates 2023” and buried in a folder I label “Receipts” because no one ever clicks there.

I check Slack. There’s a draft message I almost sent to my video editor:

“This one felt too raw. Let’s keep the eye contact, lose the rage. I want people to feel held.”

I rewrite:

“This one’s soft. Recut with edge. Add a static punch after the quote drop.”

Cool. Masculinity salvaged.

But still—Jessie’s alreadyseenme. Not candle-lit vulnerability me. But enough to know I drink almond milk matcha and once referred to a pitch as “emotionally discordant.”

Which means she could go back to Emily and say the one thing that would destroy everything I’ve worked to build:

“He’s... kind of nice.”

I can’t let that happen.

So I do what any man does when he feels the slippery approach of self-awareness. I overcorrect.

Lights on. Ring light up. Voice low. Shoulders squared.

I hit record.

“Men,” I say, pausing for emphasis. “You don’t need to feel safe to be strong.”

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