Page 90 of Falling Off Script

I freeze.

She doesn’t blink.

“That line stuck with me,” she says. “Because it reminded me of you.”

I stare at the steam rising off my cup.

She stands and rinses her mug. I don’t move.

My hands stay wrapped around the cup like it has answers. It doesn’t.

I watch her move around the kitchen—efficient, unbothered, like we haven’t just cracked open the softest part of me and left it on the table to steam.

She dries the mug. Folds the towel.

I clear my throat. “Do you ever get clients who mess things up not because they don’t care... but because they do?”

She doesn’t turn around. “That’s most of them.”

I shift in my chair. “What do you tell them?”

This time, she does look at me. No analysis. No smug insight. Just a quiet awareness, like she knows I’ve finally stopped deflecting.

“I tell them that love isn’t something you prove by saying the right thing,” she says. “It’s something you protect by showing up anyway.”

I nod. Once. “Okay. Then what the hell do I do now?”

She turns, a towel in her hand.

“If I wanted to fix it,” I say slowly, “with her—I mean... if I even could—”

She raises a hand.

“If the door opens again,” she says, “don’t walk in selling something.”

She places the mug down carefully.

“Just walk in. That’s enough.”

I look at the table, then at the door. Then back at her.

It sounds simple. But for me, showing up has always come with a pitch deck.

“No script?” I ask, half-joking, half-hoping she’ll breakher own rule.

“No script,” she says. “Just presence.”

I exhale slowly. I’m unlearning a language I thought was native.

“Right,” I say. “Just... walk in.”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. She just reaches for the towel again, like the conversation hasn’t upended me.

And somehow, that makes it easier to stand.

We don’t hug. We never do, unless someone is dying or graduating. At the door, she slips a container into my hands.

“What’s this?” I ask.

---