Page 94 of Falling Off Script

“Jessie.”

Another pause. She steps back into the room, and tosses her bag onto the couch reclaiming territory. Then she sighs again—less frustrated this time, more resigned to the fact that she is, against all professional judgment, still part of this plot.

“All right,” she says. “I’ll help. But if this turns into another stunt—if there’s even a whiff of brand strategy—I’m out.”

“Deal.”

“And not just out. I mean full Team Emily. Matching merch, TikTok duets, probably a group chat with your mother. Don’t test me.”

I manage a smile, more reflex than joy. “Understood.”

“You do know this is going to be awful, right? The energy in that room is going to be like: ‘Welcome back, here’s your accountability sandwich, we spit in it a little.’”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And you’re still doing it?”

“Yes.”

Jessie grins. “Honestly? That’s kind of hot. Stupid, but hot.”

She leaves.

I stare at the spot where my laptop sits. Where my voice usually fills the room. Where metrics and scripts and thumbnails run my day.

Not this time.

Whatever happens next—I don’t get to script it.

44. Emily

I should have known something was off when Jessie offered me coffee with a smile. Not her usual “I found a bug in your self-worth code” smirk. This was... conspiratorial. She even added oat milk without asking. That’s how I knew it was a setup.

“You’re glowing,” she said as we mic’d up.

“I’m sweating,” I replied. “You know this room has the ambient humidity of a hot yoga class, right?”

Jessie didn’t answer. Just patted my shoulder like she was proud of me for something I hadn’t done yet.

Honestly? I should’ve seen it coming. It had been a weird month.

Exactly four weeks ago, the phrase “Raw_logs” meant nothing to me. Now it’s a trigger word that makes my eye twitch. One stray folder. Thirteen misplaced files. And suddenly, the man I’d most recently yelled at via podcast showed up at my apartment with tea.

The fallout came fast. My subscriber count doubled. My sense of privacy halved.

I pivoted. Pivoted so hard my own therapist got whiplash.

New audience. New tone. New Emily.

Red graphics, Gen Z episode titles. “Intentional cringe,” Jessie called it.

The numbers soared. The comments softened. And yet, under the surface: questions. Too many. About Adrian. About the audio. About whether it was all real, or just a very compelling experiment in vulnerability as brand currency.

The plan was simple—or so I was told. A reunion livestream. Light, punchy, scroll-stopping energy. We’d talk about what worked, what flopped, what we’d learned. Maybe toss in some banter from Matt and Rachel if the mood struck. Classic post-season fluff.

Rachel was already perched on her stool like a reformed villain turned wellness coach. She had a headband. A journal. A smile that said “I’ve forgiven myself and at least three mediocre men.”

Matt hovered near the ring light, visibly sweating through his third-layer shirt. He looked like someone trying to dress up their emotional availability with a vest.

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