Page 33 of Falling Off Script

“Women. Intimacy ninjas. They get you comfortable, let you talk about your childhood, and suddenly you’re planning dog names for your hypothetical future rescue. Before even getting anything real from them.”

He shakes his head. “This isn’t a trap.”

That’s what men always say when they are trapped.

I clear my throat. “So what do you want from me? Permission?”

“No,” he says. “Just... not ridicule.”

I blink. Then nod. Fair.

“I think I want a real relationship,” he adds.

I raise my eyebrows. “Already?”

He shrugs. “I’m not saying marriage. Just... I don’t want to mess this up by playing someone I’m not.”

Now I’m the one quiet for a second.

“Okay,” I say finally. “Let’s say you don’t mess it up. Let’s say she’s real, and kind, and into you for all the right reasons. What then?”

Matt tilts his head. “Then I get to find out what it’s like to show up as myself.”

I nod once. Like I’m signing a permission slip I never got. “That’s the riskiest play in the book.”

He smiles, a little shaky. “Yeah. But you’re the one who said real connection needs risk.”

I grimace. “That does sound like something I’d say.”

He stands, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, and I watch him walk out like he’s carrying something sacred in his ribcage.

I glance back at the board. TRUST = TENSION + PRESENCE.

I pick up the marker. And under it, I add:

+ Dumbass Hope.

Then I turn off the lights.

15. Emily

I’ve watched Adrian’s videos for forty minutes. Not because I enjoy the torture — but because I’m trying to catch the sleight of hand.

I’ve got a title slide, a playlist folder, and a passive-aggressive Canva template that saysZETA MALE DECONSTRUCTEDin Helvetica Bold.

The plan is simple. Dissect his content. One video at a time. Name the tactic. Explain the psychology. Provide actual tools for women who’ve been on the receiving end of men trying to "mirror vulnerability" like it's a pickup line.

Somewhere in the smirk, the soft-focus lighting, the casually rolled-up sleeves like he’s about to solve love with forearms and a $300 haircut — there’s a trick. A narrative cheat code.

But I can’t find it.

The video’s from one of his live bootcamps—forty-seven men in a rented coworking space that probably feels much smaller in real life. It’s grainy, badly mic’d, and absolutely saturated with the scent of desperate reinvention.

“Gentlemen,” Adrian says on the screen, flashing that media-trained smile that somehow splits the difference between smug and saintly, “what do women want?”

He pauses. Lets the question hang.

“Confidence?” someone tosses out, hopeful.

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