Page 84 of Falling Off Script

“Other people didn’t moan their nemesis’s name into a voice memo that got leaked to the internet and got three hundred remixes.”

“That you know of.”

I choke on my coffee.

She smiles, more gently now. “Emily, people didn’t follow you because you were perfect. They followed you because you said the things they were too afraid to say.”

I stare down at the cup in my hand. “Yeah, well. I ran out of things to say.”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re just living one of them now.”

I don’t respond.

So she keeps going.

“You don’t have to be the hero of your story. You just have to be honest in the middle of it.”

Something about the way she says that—quiet, unforced, no lecture in her voice—hits harder than any of the therapy memes I’ve been doom-scrolling all week.

“Great,” I mutter. “So I’ll be your cautionary tale. ‘Hi, I’m Emily, and I thought secret hate sex would be fine until the secret leaked.’”

She doesn’t even blink.

“You’re not a cautionary tale. You’re a translator. For messy feelings. For what it means to want something and not be sure why. For what happens when being smart doesn’t keep you safe.”

I look at her, unsure whether to cry or offer her a podcast co-hosting gig.

“You think this disqualifies you,” she says. “But it makes you more valuable. Because now you know what it’s like to lose your voice. And what it costs to get it back.”

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

My eyes blur. Just slightly. The burn behind them is the kind that starts low and doesn’t ask for permission.

“I’m so tired, Rachel.”

“I know.”

“I feel like everything broke.”

“Good,” she says. “That means you’re in the middle. And the middle is where all the interesting shit happens.”

I sniff, half a laugh. “God, you’re good at this.”

She stands.

“You are better. You just forgot.”

39. Adrian

The notification shows up just as I’m closing out a Slack tab titled “Content Salvage Ideas – Week 3.” Fitting.

Emily Parrish has uploaded a new episode.

Title:Mistakes Were Moaned.

My stomach flips first—something halfway between guilt and indigestion. Then comes the thought:At least she’s still breathing fire. Part of me is relieved. The other part—smaller, quieter—braces for a monologue with my name in blood-red subtext.

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