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Rachel sits on the couch like her bones have been replaced with static. The blazer’s gone. So are the earrings. She’s wearing a zip-up sweatshirt and existential dread. No makeup, hair in a bun so angry it’s practically protesting.

“I regret breaking up with him,” she says.

I nod slowly.

“It just keeps coming to me. I watched him blink. He did that thing guys do when they think you’re making a mistake but they’re too emotionally evolved to say it.”

“The ‘disappointed Jedi’ face?”

“Exactly.”

She sighs. Not a dramatic sigh. A real one. The kind that leaves soot behind.

“I don’t know if it was the right thing,” she mutters. “I keep thinking maybe I just—sabotaged something good.”

“No.” I sit up straighter. “You walked away from someone performing vulnerability instead of practicing it. There’s a difference.”

Rachel’s lip wobbles. She blinks up at the ceiling like maybe God will offer a second opinion.

“I just...” she trails off. “I’m so tired, Emily. The thought of getting to know someone new feels like filing my taxes after a house fire.”

That lands in my gut like a rock.

“Then don’t date yet,” I say gently. “Rest. Grieve. Heal. We’re not doing exposure therapy for your attachment style. ”

Rachel lets out a weak laugh. “God, I wish I could be one of those girls who breaks up and immediately starts making out with bartenders.”

“You can. Just say it’s part of your healing journey and wear lip gloss.”

She smiles, barely. I hold her gaze.

“You made the right call. You didn’t walk away from something good. You walked away from something scripted.”

Rachel nods, but it’s the kind of nod people give when they’re not ready to believe themselves yet.

“I’ll text you the angry playlist,” I offer.

She reaches for her bag. “Make it acoustic. I want to cry and feel superior.”

The moment she leaves, I flop dramatically into my chair, exhale, and grab my phone. It buzzes mid-reach.

Jessie Caldwell calling.

Thank God.

After emotionally exfoliating Rachel for an hour, I’m desperate for a hit of dopamine. Preferably in meme form. Or a shared fantasy where Adrian Zayn gets lightly concussed by a collapsing ring light.

I answer, already smiling.

“Oh good, my favorite double agent. Please tell me you’ve uncovered proof that Adrian’s jawline is AI-generated and his real face is just a morally confused potato—”

“Emily.”

Jessie’s voice drops ten shades into full-on professional NPR. “This is a semi-formal call. I’m reaching out on behalf of Zayne Media.”

My smile stalls .

“...Excuse me?”

“Adrian wants to float a small content collab,” she continues. “Just one episode. Video or audio. Something lightly reactive with both of you in it.”

“What, like a reality show where I don’t throw a mug at him?”

“More like a limited edition face-off. We’re testing a format where your—how do I put this gently—unresolved tension plays well on camera.”

I snort. “So now I’m a walking plot twist.”

“You’ve always been one. He just finally noticed.”

I roll my eyes. “I assume he didn’t want to call me himself?”

“He thought I’d have a better shot.”

“So he sent my best friend to negotiate like I’m a diplomatic incident.”

“I mean... am I wrong?”

I sigh. “Jessie, come on. We barely made it through one panel without turning it into verbal foreplay for a courtroom drama. You want me to what—set up a camera and flirt-fight him for engagement metrics?”

“I want you to control the story. Use your voice. Reclaim your narrative. You know, all those empowering things you say on-air before emotionally disemboweling tech bros.”

Damn it. She’s using my own lines against me.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

A pause.

Then I add, “I have some audio drafts from that solo episode I never ran. Brainstorm stuff. Maybe a few segments he could riff off of. Want me to send them to you first? ”

“Sure,” Jessie says. “Whatever makes this easier.”

“Cool. I’ll just dig them out and share the folder.”

“And Emily?” she adds, voice softening. “Don’t let him frame this. If you show up, make it yours.”

She hangs up.

I open my Drive and click through the chaos.

Raw_logs looks right. Click. Share.

Sent, I text her. If he says ‘synergy’ with a straight face, I’m throwing something sharp.

I stretch, crack my neck, and reach for the tea.

Then my calendar pings.

Reminder: Send dream logs to Dr. Lisa before Friday.

Right. That’s what I’ll do next.