Page 8 of Falling Off Script

In the comments, someone replies:

“She looked like she wanted to punch him. Or kiss him. Possibly both.”

And then, the crown jewel of this clown parade:

A betting pool.

Run entirely through a Discord server called “Ship or Shred.”

Yes. People arebetting real moneyon whether Emily and I will have sex before the year ends. Odds are currently 3:1 in favor of a hate-fueled hookup.

Some guy named “FrameLord77” is taking this so seriously he’s doing YouTube breakdowns with freeze-frames and laser pointers.

“Now, here at minute 17, Emily unconsciously mirrors Adrian’s posture. That’s a limbic resonance signal. They’re neurologically syncing.”

I laugh so hard I drop the phone on my face.

Jesus. This is insane.

But it’s also... perfect.

I sit up in bed, still grinning like a man who just realized his worst enemy is now his best marketing funnel.

Because here’s the thing: you can’t buy this kind of buzz. This is the stuff PR people pray for and then invoice you twenty grand to pretend they created.

This isn’t just drama.

It’s a narrative.

It’s enemies-to-lovers fanfic with a real-time comment section and split-screen sexual tension. It’s hate-watching with a side of “but what if?”

And whether they love me or hate me, they’re watching. They’re clipping. They’re sharing.

Even the feminists are boosting engagement—debunking, dissecting, sometimes thirsting in between paragraphs of deconstruction.

Tyler texts me.

TYLER:

Trending on Twitter.

“Zeta x Slayer” is the new ship name.

You’re welcome.

ME:

Do we trademark it or lean in?

TYLER:

Lean in.

Hard.

I’ve bet on you!

I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, brain buzzing louder than the ring light I forgot to pack.

---