Page 74 of Falling Off Script

She doesn’t answer.

She just watches me. Quiet. Still half-dressed. Still barefoot.

And somehow that makes me feel more naked than she is.

I grab my shirt.

“Anyway. I should go.”

Still casual. Still cool.

Totally normal to flee after you’ve just had the most unsettlingly real sex of your adult life with the one woman who’s publicly called you a “charismatic algorithm in pants.”

Totally.

“Are you running from me,” she says finally, “or just from the part where you liked it?”

I turn, half-buttoned, halfway out the door of my own emotional bandwidth.

She’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m not running,” I say. “I’m just... emotionally jogging.”

That gets a laugh.

A real one. Soft. A little cracked.

She pulls her legs up, hugs her knees, looks at me like she can already see the next three moves.

Which, fair. She probably can.

“Jog carefully,” she says.

“Always.”

And I leave before I say something honest.

Because coming over once was the game.

Staying would have meant I forgot the rules.

34. Emily

“So,” Dr. Lisa says, clicking her pen like it’s a loaded weapon, “how’s the dream journaling going?”

I wince. Not the correct response, and we both know it.

“I sent you the folder like you asked. Labeled, dated, ethically unhinged.”

“About that,” she says gently, “I think there may have been a mix-up. The files I received sounded more like... rough podcast drafts?”

I blink. “What?”

“Very polished. You narrating ideas. No dreams that I could identify—unless your subconscious involves mid-roll ad breaks.”

Oh no. And yes, it explains everything.

“Wrong folder,” I mumble. “Wrong people. I sent two hours of voice-memo sex dreams to Jessie. And it looks like she shared them with Adrian.”

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