Page 68 of Falling Off Script

“I want you to control the story. Use your voice. Reclaim your narrative. You know, all those empowering things you say on-air before emotionally disemboweling tech bros.”

Damn it. She’s using my own lines against me.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

A pause.

Then I add, “I have some audio drafts from that solo episode I never ran. Brainstorm stuff. Maybe a few segments he could riff off of. Want me to send them to you first?”

“Sure,” Jessie says. “Whatever makes this easier.”

“Cool. I’ll just dig them out and share the folder.”

“And Emily?” she adds, voice softening. “Don’t let him frame this. If you show up, make it yours.”

She hangs up.

I open my Drive and click through the chaos.

Raw_logslooks right. Click. Share.

Sent, I text her. If he says ‘synergy’ with a straight face, I’m throwing something sharp.

I stretch, crack my neck, and reach for the tea.

Then my calendar pings.

Reminder: Send dream logs to Dr. Lisa before Friday.

Right. That’s what I’ll do next.

31. Adrian

There are very few moments in life when I feel genuinely disoriented.

Mildly amused? Regularly.

Profoundly pleased with myself? Hourly.

But this? Sitting at my desk, watching a folder labeledRaw_logssprout thirteen audio files?

This is new.

Jessie had forwarded it earlier today—said that she hadn’t had time to check it. I expected outtakes. Feminist rambling. Maybe a bonus track where Emily called me a sentient leather jacket or a walking, talking red flag.

So naturally, I clicked.

The first file opened with her voice. Low. Raspy. Not polished for the mic—real.

“Okay. Dream log. He was there again.”

I blinked.

“Adrian. Just—there. No warning. No shirt. No shame.”

My smoothie stalled halfway to my mouth.

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