Page 95 of Falling Off Script

Jessie manned the audio with the gleeful chaos of someone who knew exactly what was coming and had no plans to warn me.

We rolled. Cameras on. Audience live.

And for ten beautiful minutes, it went exactly as planned.

“So Rachel,” I said, flipping through my cue cards. “Tell us how it feels to be the first person in this group to graduate from emotional chaos to couple’s therapy.”

She beamed. “Honestly? I think I was just ready to stop being right and start being happy.”

Cute. Marketable. Clean.

Matt chimed in: “And I’m just happy to have a second chance at demonstrating I’m not a walking red flag.”

Jessie made a gesture off-camera that implied he was still at least salmon-colored. The chat exploded in laughter.

I relaxed a little. The metrics were good. Engagement was steady. My pulse was only mildly erratic.

I turned to Jessie.

“What’s your hot take on why modern dating’s still a mess?”

She didn’t flinch. “Trying too hard to be impressive instead of just... being a human.”

That’s Jessie for you. Equal parts snark and clairvoyance. The kind of girl who’d psychoanalyze your love life mid-coffee order and then offer you a bite of her croissant.

Before I could steer us back to safer territory, she added—way too casually: “Okay, Emily. What would you tell your past self? Y’know, the one who treated dating like a quarterly KPI review.”

Low blow. Fair.

I laughed. “Maybe... less spreadsheets, more somatic awareness?”

A few chuckles. Rachel gave me a look like she’d heard that one in therapy. Jessie just raised a brow.

“No, seriously,” I said. “I’d probably say—stop trying to optimize for the lowest possible risk. Eventually, you start confusing loneliness with safety.”

There it was. My truth. Neatly packaged. Totally survivable. Maybe even tweetable.

That’s when Jessie leaned into her mic.

“We’ve got a surprise guest today.”

I blinked. “We what?”

Rachel was suddenly very invested in adjusting her mic level. Matt looked like he was trying not to make eye contact with a bear.

Jessie turned to the camera. “You may know him as the man who hijacked Emily’s podcast not once, but twice. Please welcome...Adrian Zayne.”

I swear my heart stopped. Not in a poetic way. In a medical emergency way.

Adrian walks out like he’s entering a TED Talk—but without the smirk. Hair slightly messy. Wearing a shirt I once said makes him look “accidentally approachable.”

He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t look at the camera. Just meets my eyes.

And for a second, I want to run.

Instead, I sit frozen. Waiting for the punchline.

There isn’t one.

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