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Hangovers aren’t supposed to last a week.

But apparently, shame marinates.

I wake up on my living room floor, clutching a half-eaten Girl Dinner charcuterie board and a hairbrush I had, at some point, used as a mic. There is a single sticky note on my laptop that read:

DO NOT PODCAST DRUNK.

Solid advice.

Not that I needed it. I hadn’t opened the podcast mic since. Or checked the analytics. Or answered Dr. Lisa’s latest texts—because if there’s one thing worse than being exposed, it’s being asked how you feel about it.

My inbox is like a haunted house—full of ghosts who suddenly remembered my name once the scandal hit trending.

Love is a scam. Trust is a liability. And the only man who’s ever truly seen me is currently monetizing my public humiliation.

I am halfway through a Google search for “How to pivot your brand without dying” when my scheduling app pings.

New appointment booked.

Rachel G. | 1pm Today

I stare at it.

For a second, I thought it was a hallucination. Or a prank. Or a divine intervention scheduled by the Feminist Internet to force me to wear pants again.

But no. It was her.

The one client I hadn’t completely let down. Yet .

I almost canceled.

Then didn’t. I dug out a semi-clean hoodie, brushed my teeth with the urgency of someone entering a hostage negotiation, and sat at my desk.

Because apparently, even a burnout spiral can be people-pleasing.

***

Rachel arrives five minutes early, holding a smoothie and looking like a human-shaped reset button. Calm. Fresh-faced. Post-glow-up energy. It’s vaguely threatening.

“Wow,” I say. “A living woman. Should I offer tea, or just the raw disappointment of my current existence?”

She holds up her smoothie. “Already hydrated. But I’ll take the disappointment to go.”

We sit. She crosses her legs like a woman with boundaries. I fold mine under me like a squirrel bracing for nuclear winter.

“So,” I say, trying to sound breezy and not like I’m dying inside, “how are things with Matt?”

She gives me a look that’s impossible to read, then nods slowly.

“He’s... back in the picture.”

My eyebrows do the Macarena.

“Back in the picture like... professionally photoshopped or magically resurrected?”

Rachel smiles softly. “We’ve been talking. A lot. And yeah... I’m thinking of getting back with him.”

I blink. Then take a sip of my cold coffee and make a face like it’s judging me back.

“Bold move. ”

She tilts her head. “I’m aware.”

“You seriously believe he changed?”

“I do. No ultimatums. No makeover montages. He just... did the work.”

“Great. So I’m the only one in this narrative without a satisfying third act.”

She smirks. “You could start yours anytime.”

I deadpan: “Coming soon to absolutely no platforms: Emily Parrish Re-Enters Society.”

“Sounds like a hit,” she says. “Especially if you narrate it.”

“Oh no,” I say, holding up both hands. “I only podcast from a place of smug emotional superiority. That ship sank with my dignity.”

Rachel leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You really think people only listened to you because you had it all figured out?”

I shrug. “Well, the lighting didn’t hurt.”

She ignores me. “You think because you fell apart a little—because someone hurt you—you’ve lost the right to help other people make sense of their pain?”

“Other people didn’t moan their nemesis’s name into a voice memo that got leaked to the internet and got three hundred remixes.”

“That you know of.”

I choke on my coffee.

She smiles, more gently now. “Emily, people didn’t follow you because you were perfect. They followed you because you said the things they were too afraid to say.”

I stare down at the cup in my hand. “Yeah, well. I ran out of things to say. ”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re just living one of them now.”

I don’t respond.

So she keeps going.

“You don’t have to be the hero of your story. You just have to be honest in the middle of it.”

Something about the way she says that—quiet, unforced, no lecture in her voice—hits harder than any of the therapy memes I’ve been doom-scrolling all week.

“Great,” I mutter. “So I’ll be your cautionary tale. ‘Hi, I’m Emily, and I thought secret hate sex would be fine until the secret leaked.’”

She doesn’t even blink.

“You’re not a cautionary tale. You’re a translator. For messy feelings. For what it means to want something and not be sure why. For what happens when being smart doesn’t keep you safe.”

I look at her, unsure whether to cry or offer her a podcast co-hosting gig.

“You think this disqualifies you,” she says. “But it makes you more valuable. Because now you know what it’s like to lose your voice. And what it costs to get it back.”

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

My eyes blur. Just slightly. The burn behind them is the kind that starts low and doesn’t ask for permission.

“I’m so tired, Rachel.”

“I know.”

“I feel like everything broke. ”

“Good,” she says. “That means you’re in the middle. And the middle is where all the interesting shit happens.”

I sniff, half a laugh. “God, you’re good at this.”

She stands.

“You are better. You just forgot.”