Page 91 of Falling Off Script

“Dinner. And a subtle metaphor.”

I raise an eyebrow.

She taps the red lid. “Means stop running.”

I stare at her.

She smiles like a secret.

And for the first time in weeks, I don’t have anything clever to say.

42. Emily

I hadn’t planned to come back.

Not after the leak.

Not after the backlash.

And definitely not after waking up to a remix of my own orgasmic sigh set to lo-fi beats and labeled"Zeta Sleep Sounds, Vol. 1."

But here I am.

Same couch. Same zen-as-hell little bonsai tree on the windowsill. Same therapist who knows too much and says too little.

It has been two weeks since I ghosted our last scheduled session. I blamed “schedule conflicts,” which was generous. The real conflict was existential: I didn’t know if I could still talk about feelings without auto-translating them into hashtags and public shame.

But I came back anyway. Because the silence was starting to sound like him.

Dr. Lisa didn’t comment on my absence. She just gestured to the couch and asked, “Tea?”

I shook my head. “Tea feels a bit... loaded right now.”

And just like that, we are back.

Sort of.

Not really.

But enough.

I’d just finished my two-week highlight reel—leak, shame spiral, ego in rehab—and she’d been nodding along like someone trying to assemble IKEA furniture using a horoscope.

But her pen paused mid-word, like it had been waiting for me to stop talking.

I narrow my eyes. “Okay, how long have you been sitting on a comment you swore you wouldn’t interrupt with?”

She seems to hesitate. “Emily. Can I ask you a question that’s... not clinical?”

“That’s already a red flag.”

She folds her hands. “This man you’ve been describing—the one from the dreams, the tea visit, the one you thought published the audios. His name is Adrian?”

I blinked. “...yes?”

“And he goes by Adrian Zayne. Publicly.”

I give her the side-eye of doom. “Lisa. Why do you look like someone who just solved a murder and realized it was their dog?”

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