You didn’t like the monologue.

It wasn’t bad. But from the episodes you’ve seen, Saturday Night Live’s monologues aren’t like this. This script seemed… lazy.

It was the fault of the writers, of course. Even better, a writers fault.

John’s.

You asked, pleaded, attempted to persuade the team to assign the monologue - and any of the sketches - to someone else. Anyone but your ex. You were met with some laughs, but mostly confusion. For all the things an SNL host could ask for, a different writer is an odd request. John’s brilliant, why do you want someone else?

You couldn’t tell people you dated him. John wasn’t out yet. No matter how badly you ended things, how much he might hate you, how much you might hate him, you simply couldn’t out him.

You knocked on the writers’ room door later that week. “I wanted to ask about the m-?”

You stop when it’s John’s face that greets you. He looks surprised, but not horrified or disgusted. Maybe this is a good sign. He sounds tired, if anything. “The monologue?”