Page 41 of Falling Off Script

I can see him squirming, even if it’s only in my head. You couldn’t pay me enough to coach that dude back into her inbox.

"My advice? Don’t chase ghosts. Elevate instead."

A few people in the chat type the rocket emojis. I end the stream with a tight smile.

"That’s all for today. Remember: You don’t rise by chasing. You rise by becoming." A pause. A wink. "See you legends next week."

I log off.

Silence.

Then I exhale. Long. Through my nose.

Open another tab.

Search:Emily Parrish Let Me Finish.

It loads with annoying clarity. New episode. New thumbnail. She looks good—annoyingly good. Like someone who actually sleeps and drinks water and doesn’t spend thirty minutes explaining "social calibration" with a slide deck.

Title: "When He Doesn’t Hear You (Because He Thinks He’s Winning)"

I wince.

I press play.

Her voice slides through my speakers—warm, certain. Just enough edge to be interesting. Just enough softness to be dangerous.

“We’ve all had that date. The guy who orders for you. The one who monologues. Who thinks presence is the same thing as dominance. And when you ghost? He tries again, not because he values you—but because his ego doesn’t like the silence.”

Well, it looks like she’s still ghosting that douche.

Good girl.

19. Emily

This was a bad idea.

Not unethical. Not dangerous. But high-risk ridiculous. The kind of plan you’d expect from a woman in a romcom with a concussion. Or unresolved issues from high school. Or both.

I stand in front of the mirror in Jessie’s apartment, applying eyeliner with the kind of concentration usually reserved for bomb defusal. Which, to be fair, this kind of is.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jessie says from the couch, where she’s aggressively not watching me. “You’re doing a field test. Of a man. Using your own body.”

I cap the eyeliner and turn to face her. “He seduces for sport. This is just... sport back.”

“You literally teach women how to avoid guys like him.”

“Exactly. Which makes this... research.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And the wig?”

I hold up the glossy red hair bob. “Controlled variable.”

Jessie mutters something about Freud and takes a sip of wine.

The logic is shaky, yes. But here’s the thing: I need to know.

It’s not just about Adrian. Okay—it’s about Adrian. But more than that, it’s about my own mind. Because lately, I can’t tell if he’s my ideological nemesis or just... incredibly inconveniently hot.

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