Page 45 of Falling Off Script

I wake up disoriented, which is already a bad sign.

Not the kind of disoriented that comes from tequila or low blood sugar. It’s the ambient kind—like someone rearranged the furniture in my brain while I slept. Nothing’s technically wrong, but everything feels half a beat off.

Also: it’s 8:07 a.m.

I never sleep past seven.

I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room tilts, then corrects itself like it’s embarrassed for me. I rub my eyes and run a quick systems check.

No hangover. No fever. No emotional damage that I’m aware of.

Still, there’s something there. Some static buzz.

I shake it off.

Cold shower. Espresso. Inbox.

Normally that’s enough to reset me. Not today. Everything feels slightly out of sync, like I’m watching my own life on a one-second delay.

I reread the same subject line three times. Delete it anyway.

Espresso number two.

Standing desk. Noise-canceling headphones.

I open the video folder. The one I’ve been avoiding.

I hit play on some raw footage. Watch my own face appear on screen, mid-sentence, mid-hand-gesture. I look like I know what I’m saying.

I don’t feel like that guy today.

Pause. Close window. Exit.

This is getting annoying.

I lean back, let my gaze drift up to the ceiling, and that’s when it hits me.

Not a memory. Just a flash. A mood.

Rooftop lights. Warm-toned. The expensive kind that makes everyone look photogenic and emotionally available.

Perfume—something bright, then slow-burning.

A laugh, low and curved like a question.

Red lipstick.

I frown.

I didn’t go out last night.

Unless I somehow sleepwalked into an influencer event—and honestly, I’d rather be dead.

So... a dream?

Maybe. Probably. I don’t usually remember them, but sometimes they leave behind smoke.

Still—why the hell am I thinking—

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