She pulled out Aladdin on a whim last night, and now she has what just might be the most beautiful Disney song ever stuck in her head.

She hums it to herself as she’s getting dressed for work, which is probably why she risks a pink sweater top, the ¾ sleeves her absolute least favorite.

She turns around in front of her mirror, spinning slowly.

Except today, she doesn’t feel like wearing a skirt. She digs around in her closet for the black slacks she knows she has. Her black boots give her a bit of height, and just a bit more confidence. She walks back into her bedroom and isn’t surprised to see Roy still sleeping. She has half an hour before he’ll get up; an hour, at least, before they leave.

She hates to be awake here, but for some reason, she hates to sleep even more. It’s like she’s going to miss something, except she knows she won’t. Not here. She wanders into the guest bathroom (it’s nicer than the masters’) and carefully towels portions of her hair dry. After ten minutes, she decides there’s no way she’ll wake Roy; he’s downstairs, snoring like…She doesn’t even know what. She takes out the hair dryer and takes her sweet time.

She considers just pulling her hair back, but it really doesn’t do the outfit justice. Her boots click on the tile, and she catches herself in the mirror.

It amazes her just how graceful she can be in these; they’re like two and a half inches, and she never wears heels.

She finally settles – no, decides – on styling her hair into soft curls.

It’s been a week since Jim fell off the face of the planet, and she almost – almost, almost – calls him after she leaves Roy that night.

Her new apartment is empty and bland. She doesn’t have the energy to paint it, or go out and buy fancy new furniture, so she settles on something easier. On a sunny Friday after work, she goes to a local electronics store and absolutely murders the previous four paychecks she’d been hoarding. She buys a laptop (sometimes, it’s just too hard to get out of bed on a dreary Saturday), a digital camera and a few lenses (she’d been meaning to expand her artistic styles), a few "necessary" items to let her online wirelessly (again with the dreary weekends), and a Nintendo DS (how can anyone pass up those games?). A little shameless flirting and all of the above is hers for less than $3,500.

The salesman was cute, too, so that helped.

She hums to herself while her computer sets itself up. She’s really good at her little video game, especially the Su Doku cartridge (are they called cartridges anymore?).

For the next week, she plays her games during lunch and munches on various assortments of Chex Mix. Real food when I get home, she decides.

When Jim comes back from Stamford – and shoots her down – she hides at her desk during lunch. All the confidence she’d gained in recent months seemed to fade away as easily as hesitation had come in his answer. She wraps herself in her game, playing with virtual little pets. It never takes long for her to tire of this game, though, and soon, she’s playing the classically updated Super Mario Bros. game.

Tuesday is her least favorite day of the week. However, two weeks after Jim comes back into town (a lovely, cool Tuesday), she wakes up feeling absolutely fantastic. She digs out the pink sweater, black slacks, and her "little" boots, as Kelly had called them. She does her hair and make-up perfectly. Her hands don’t shake, her stomach doesn’t churn.

Hell, she’s not even really thinking. It hurts to think, so she decides not to.

Today, her confidence-calendar advises, befriend someone new, so she sits with Oscar, Kevin, and Phyllis at lunch. It was either that, or Jim, Karen, Kelly and Ryan.

Phyllis greets her with the warmest smile, Oscar smiles and scoots a chair back for her, Kevin creeps her out a little.

Jim gives her a questioning look. She shrugs, smiles, and takes a bite of her reheated chicken parmesan (she really likes to cook this particular dish).These guys aren’t so bad, she thinks. Conversation is effortless and fun. Sure, somewhat perverted and a little reminiscent of her junior year around Roy’s friends (never hers, "like you had any,"), but she likes the light-heartedness of it all.

Phyllis has a surprisingly dirty mind, as does Oscar. Kevin…Everyone already knew about Kevin. The first week or so, they sort of await her approval before making a crude joke or gesture (yes, those, too); she always gives the okay.

The first time she mumbles, "That’s what she said," from behind her desk, Phyllis giggles, Oscars’ eyes go wide, and Kevin, also wide-eyed, whispers, "Niiice" as he steals a jelly bean from her desk later.

She sees the wheels turning in Jim’s head, wondering what on earth these three know that he doesn’t. She’s glad he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything, keep it that way.

She always imagined Phyllis as the motherly type, but thinks now, maybe she’s more like an older sister. Phyllis talks of Bob Vance (who also has a rather dirty mind); Pam talks of her art classes.

Phyllis tells Jim, but only in bits and pieces. She never mentions Pam’s second art show.

Pam doesn’t hang flyers; she doesn’t make a big announcement. She tells Michael, because he came last time, and her three friends from the office. The word gets around, and more people show than last time. Oscar and Gil give a little constructive criticism, even. Michael cries. Kelly hugs her. Phyllis and Bob Vance buy her picture of shadowed roses – an actual picture, taken with her new, fancy digital camera. Angela apologizes the next day ("I had…company").

Jim and Karen wonder what everyone else knows that they don’t.

Karen takes a sick day to prepare for her parents visit the coming weekend. Jim makes his move, and sits with Pam, Oscar, Kevin, and Phyllis at lunch.

"Shut. Up. You cheated!" Kevin argues (Oscar had won four consecutive rounds of paper football; Pam can’t remember the proper name, but knows it’s a big deal).

"Face it, Kev. I’m younger, faster, and can send my balls further than you." Oscar grins, waiting for the final touch.

"Thaaat’s what she said!" Pam and Phyllis offer at the same time, collapsing in a fit of laughter. Pam leans into Phyllis as she snorts – not just a snort like the one she shared with Jim when they broke Andy’s brain (she felt so stupid for letting that afternoon give her any hope at all); a full on, pig-rolling-in-the-mud snort.

Jim’s eyes go wide, and he braces himself for the teasing he’s sure Pam’s about to endure. Instead, Kevin makes a few snorting noises, and soon the group’s red-faced with laughter. He nibbles his sandwich.

She cares about Jim. Really, she does. It’s just hard to let herself care for him. He’s unpredictable, selfish, and, lately, way too stuck-up for his own good. Mine, too. I don’t want that. I don’t need that drama.

A couple of months later, Oscar invites her to join him and a few friends for drinks after work.

"I don’t think so; I’m a light-weight! Wouldn’t be any fun for you guys," she offers.

"Not taking ‘no’ for an answer, Pam. C’mon. Go put on that hot, red shirt of yours and the black pants that make your ass look awesome; the place is a little more upscale than Poor Richard’s." He drags her, both laughing, by the arm out of the office.

Jim and Karen leave a few minutes later. He covers his mouth, coughing, when Karen reaches for his hand in the elevator.

Through her classes and new friends, she’s exposed to more styles of art, video games, sports, music, and people.

Oscar, Kev, and Phyllis, she decides, are strictly (okay, so most of the time they’ll be strictly) office buds. They’re awesome and all, but eight hours a day, five days a week is plenty.

On a particularly bleak Sunday morning, she decides to drive up and visit her mother. Standing in the kitchen of the house she grew up in, she decides this is the type of house she wants to own someday. Her mother clicks on the radio to a local country.

Pam’s only heard this song once before, but this time, for some reason, it hits closer to home. "Mom," she asks, sipping a bottle of water, "what’s this song?"

"Um…Oh, goodness, I know this. Oh! That...Teardrops song, by that girl Taylor… Something or other… Swift, I think. Pretty, isn’t it?"

"Yeah," she chuckles.

Her mother knows.

**

When her birthday rolls around, Michael wants to throw her a party in the office. She declines, saying she’d be much more comfortable in the new house she’s going to be making payments on for the next twenty-something years (it’s so much like her mother’s house – how could she not? She’s even having a terrace put in sometime next month!).

She invites everyone personally. She even invites Karen, who rejects her: "We’re going to Philadelphia that weekend…Jim’s got Phillies tickets, or something." No sorry. No nothing.

The Friday of the party, she hands out hand-drawn maps (each one’s got a different doodling on it; she was really bored). Stopping behind Jim’s desk, she decides to make one last push.

She planned to have the television on (and tuned into the game) that night for noise (that, and she had really grown to love baseball; it was consistent, yet unpredictable, and filled three lonely hours a night for a hundred and sixty-two nights a year).

"Um…"

"I hope you can make it tonight," she smiles, placing a map on his desk. "I mean, Karen told me you’re going to Philadelphia tomorrow so whatever, if you can’t come…"

His expression changes three times before he manages: "What’s this?"

"A map," she turns to walk back to her desk.

"I know where you live, Pam," he smiles smugly.

"No, no, no. I let Roy keep the house in the west end. He paid for it."

His mouth forms an ‘O,’ and his discomfort is obvious. "What’s this for?"

"My party…I turn 27 tomorrow. Karen…Didn’t tell you I was doing this?"

"No. Maybe. She might’ve mentioned it. Um. I’ll try to swing by," he smiles, holding the map up.

Don’t bother, she wants to say. Don’t bother. This was my one last bold move. I’m done worrying and wondering after this. Stop trying, Jim. Make it easier for me to give you up. Do something. I’m up three moves to your two here. Even it out.

She counts the ‘COME BACK!’ phone message as a "move."

**

Everyone shows up. The people from her classes are really cool, and they seem to be getting along with everyone from the office. Dwight shows up, but seems distracted. Angela leaves after a few minutes, having dropped off her gift and had a cup of lemonade. Dwight leaves shortly after.

Her neighbors were invited, too, so nobody complains about the music or extremely loud laughing.

Or the tasteless dancing and partying in the front yard.

Jim and Karen show up, holding hands and carrying a wrapped box. Karen releases her death-grip on Jim and wanders off to chat with Phyllis and Bob Vance, leaving Jim standing in the middle of the living room like an idiot.

Pam’s talking with Kevin and Stacey, who asks where Pam got her jersey, and how much she paid for it. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jim lean against the wall by the window, watching the television, but she knows he’s only looking at it, not seeing it. "Excuse me," she smiles, "I think I forgot to greet some guests." Kevin and Stacey nod their approval, like I need that, she smiles.

"Hey, Jim!" She runs up and waves at him, her body language trying to be simply surprised. She does this weird limbo-like move, only on her right side, bending into his line of vision and waving. "You made it!" She extends her hand.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Nice place, Beesly." He looks cautiously at her hand, as though it might burn him, but reaches out and shakes it, anyway.

"I like it," she laughs softly. "Want to meet everyone?"

"Um, nah, I’m cool. Listen, do you think we could maybe talk somewhere?"

"Um…Now?" She sighs; she’s tired of this game.

"Well, I mean, you’re busy, but sometime soon, you know, to um, catch up?" He wonders why that came out as a question.

"Um, you know what?" She looks around. "Yeah. Okay. Give me a minute and I’ll meet you out on the porch swing." She smiles that full, toothy smile he didn’t know she was capable of (until she’d really became Fancy New Beesly, and started hanging out with Oscar, Kevin, and Phyllis), and spins on her heels.

She closes her eyes and bites her bottom lip in silent victory as soon as her back is turned. "Jordan," she whispers.

Jordan’s her new best friend; she’d met him through Greg from her Wednesday art class. Greg and Jordan were, well, involved. "Jordan!" She walks over and nudges him with her beer bottle. "See that guy heading out the front door?"

"Shaggy hair? Oh, is that him?!" She smiles and nods silently. He grips her arms and shakes her slightly: "Pam, if you don’t go talk to him right. Now. I’m going to smack you. Go, woman!"

"I am, I am!" She laughs, brushing him off. "I’m making him sweat it a little," she winks and takes a sip.

"Oh, my! Pam Beesly’s got a dark side, everyone!" he yells (not that anyone could hear).

She slowly makes her way to the front of the house, smiling at everyone she passes (even Michael hasn’t made a complete and total ass of himself yet. Yet.). She walks out front a few minutes later and sees Jim sitting on her porch swing, waiting like she’d asked.

"Halpert," she greets, standing in front of him. She isn’t smiling anymore.

"Hey, Pam." He tries to smile a sad, sympathetic smile, but she thinks he looks flat out pathetic. "Who was that guy that was all over you in there?" He hadn’t meant that to sound so full of jealousy.

"A friend of a friend. Met him through a guy in my art class. They’re…involved," she laughs. She hadn’t meant it to sound so bitchy.

"You’re taking classes?" He asks; eyes wide.

"…Yeah. I am. Can’t be a receptionist forever," she shrugs. Déjà vu, she thinks. She takes a risk, sitting down next to him. She sits with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped out in front of her, staring at the wooden deck below her.

"And Roy’s okay with that?"

"What makes you think I need his permission? And I don’t know if he is or not, or what it would matter – we broke up." She glares at him, and he pulls back a bit.

"Oh…When?"

"Um. Right after you left for Stamford? Hence the new house and everything…"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. You let him keep the house, I forgot…"

She doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything. He turns towards her, one arm thrown over the back of the swing, the other hand resting on her forearm. "Pam," he whispers, leaning in.

She leans in, just enough to smell his cologne. She thinks she might give in.

Jordan’s been watching through the window. He knows her weaknesses, and knows better than to let her do this. He runs to the door and sticks his head out, "Pam! Come sing Cyndi Lauper with me on the karaoke machine!"

She closes her eyes and bites her bottom lip. "Okay!" She agrees, a little too cheerfully for Jim’s liking (maybe that’s because his eyes were closed, too; he doesn’t know she’s still got hers clenched), still inches from his face. She stands to walk towards Jordan, who has his free arm extended towards her.

"Pam." Jim stands up and runs to stand in front of her. "What’s the matter with you?" He whispers.

"Are you sure Karen's okay with you being out here?" She asks, brushing past him, laughing as Jordan takes her into the house with a protective arm slung around her waist.

"Is what okay with Queen Bitch Karen?" Jordan whispered, though he already knew. That was the nickname Greg and Jordan had come up with one night after Pam had had one too many and started spilling all of the awful things Karen had said or done, or not said but shouted in extremely hateful looks directed at Pam, and Pam alone.

"I have no idea…Him making a drunken move on me? He asked if my taking classes were okay with Roy, so I figured it was only fair to take my own hit below the belt." Jordan hugs her closer to him and tells everyone to clear the couch.

He lifts her up, screaming with laughter, and sets her on her couch. She dramatically extends a hand to help him up, and ask Phyllis to hand her the karaoke machine microphones. "Phyllis, m’lady, if you please…Cyndi Lauper, ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.’" Phyllis obliges quickly, and soon, everyone has wandered into the living room from…wherever they had been, to watch Jordan and Pam sing off-key and stumble over each other on her new couch.

Pam sees Jim take Karen’s hand and pull her out of the house. A moment later, headlights sweep across her living room, so she reaches for another beer, hands the microphone to another student from her class, and heads into the kitchen. Three strikes, and you’re out, Halpert. Four should be a crime.

She’s taken to a band called the Plain White T’s, and she paints a lot while listening to them. She’s even started hiding her ear buds under her hair while at work, plugged into her computer. She has to race for the pause button whenever Michael comes near, but other than that, no problems.

It’s been two weeks since her party. Jim hasn’t said a single word to her. Not one.

Phyllis has stopped telling Jim anything; "If you want to know so bad, ask her yourself." Everyone heard or saw what happened at the party.

Pam guesses he doesn’t want to know so badly.

On a particularly slow Tuesday (she still hates them), she decides to hell with it, and takes her iPod into the kitchen with her while she goes to make herself a cup of tea. Nobody says anything, if anyone noticed in the first place.

Except him. He always notices.

It’s kind of creepy, anymore. Not kind of. It’s just plain fucking creepy.

Creepier when he follows her in there. Creepier when he taps her on the shoulder, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin.

She yanks the headphones from her ears and wraps the wire around her iPod, staring at him, daring him to speak first.

He just stares. He stares for a good minute, while her water’s heating up, and she just stares back. She’s not speaking first. She refuses to think the puppy-dog eyes and changes in expression mean anything. She knows better, deep down; but to think he still has that power over her makes her want to die.

"Pam," he starts, but her pot whistles and interrupts his whole thought process. She turns her back to him, focusing all her attention on her teapot, and putting all her strength into not crying.

"Pam." It's nearly a command.

"Yeah?" She asks, stirring her cup. She looks up at him, casually, as she turns around and then tries to fixate herself on her drink.

Maybe if I spiked it, I'd be able to focus a little more on it.

"I'm...The party. I'm...It was...I'm sorry." He whispers the last part.

"Um, don't be? We all had a great time. I mean, yeah. Don't be, Jim. It got better, after you left, you know." She walks away from him, but nods her head towards the office area, and he follows her back into the land of the slightly insane. "Kelly did a really...Unique...Version of The Warrior. You know. Cheesy, 80's, totally not something you'd expect her to know." Before she realizes it, she's led him straight to her desk. He's leaning on her counter, munching on some M&Ms (she got more visits from Kevin than Jim - why not?). "She was pretty drunk, though..." She sits down.

"Sorry I missed it," he whispers. His eyes grow dark, and he suddenly looks enraged.

Taken aback, she turns to her screen. "I've gotta..." She points to the screen. "Michael, corporate, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, no. Sure."

She turns her computer on for the first time that day and tries to think past what the hell he could be angry at her for.

Suddenly, her fingers don't work. First, the knob wouldn't turn as she was leaving the conference room. Then, she transferred a call to Michael instead of Karen. Now, she can't even make herself fidget with her necklace. She's just staring at her cup. Waiting. He walks back into the office area, glaring at her through dead and tired eyes, but says nothing. He slows to gently squeeze Karen's shoulder and whisper something in her ear.

She looks confused. He cocks his head towards the door just as the producers are asking Pam for an interview. Jim knocks his knuckles on her desk and tells her they're (he and Karen) are going on break, and the camera guy's going over pre-interview procedure, and Michael's crying, Angela's scowling, Pam feels like her head might explode. She half-shouts, "Whatever." And stands to walk to the conference room.

Dramatic exits look much better on TV. Except this one. She'll never hear the end of this, tripping over Jim's big-ass feet. Why'd he have to be near the end of her counter, anyway? She regains her composure and sits by the window in the conference room.

"Oh, that? Jim just...Spilled something...On the floor...It's okay, though, I've got hardwood floors so, nothing permanent."

Jim stands, Karen sits on a bench and looks like she might vomit. 

She doesn't know what to do with herself. It's been two days, and he hasn't so much as looked her way. She wonders if he'll ever come around. She begins to think she wouldn't care if he did.

She's listening to the tiny radio she's somehow convinced Michael to let her keep at her desk, as long as it's volume is low and the morning show "not as funny as me." Random snippets of songs are being played on the morning show, and callers are having to guess the names and artists for prizes, each getting only three words of the song to go on. She doodles each set of words in her sketch pad, making little block-letter cities and cars and people.

And then he's there. "I just...I just stepped away from my desk and I sort of forgot I was waiting on a call. Anything?"

"No." She says without looking up. "Oh, wait, yeah. I'm sorry. Um. Mr. Wallace? He wants beige instead of cream."

"Oh." She glances up long enough to see him appear confused and deep in thought. "Where are the jelly beans?"

"I stopped buying them. No one was eating them. Waste of money I don't have. At least Kev eats the M&Ms, you know?"

"Yeah," he thinks before finishing this sentence: "But he has a bag in his desk."

He shouldn't have said that. "So? He'll eat these, too. It's not like he's the only one. I happen to like M&Ms." She pauses, then whispers: "At least he talks to me."

"I talk to you, Pam." He's starting to sound irriated, at least he's trying to. All she hears is pathetic.

She scoffs, and continues her scribbling. "That's ironic," she laughs, holding up the pad for him to see: "Intrusive and arrogant." She smiles mischeviously. "Taking Back Sunday, Liar."

"Excuse me?" He raises his voice.

"It's a song, Jim. Liar's the name of the song. I don't know you well enough to call you a liar." She raises an eyebrow at him, questioning him.

It works. He seems unsure of his next move, so he nods, purses his lips, and knocks her desk twice. "Okay." He turns and walks away.

It's what she wanted.

She reminds herself again. It's what she wanted him to do.

Yeah. She believes that.

About an hour later, she's on her way out the door. Kevin (reluctantly), Oscar, Phyllis, and somehow Stanley are taking her to lunch to celebrate her newfound freedom (she turned Kelly down with a simple 'no' and stuck to it, when asked about a blind date!). Phyllis invites Jim, but leaves out that Pam's going (or that they're all splitting her tab for her). He seems a bit shocked and hesitant when he sees Pam climb into Oscar's car. She throws her head back and laughs, though, and he blinks twice and folds himself into his car, following Oscar out of the lot.

Cugino's is a lot nicer than he remembered. Or maybe it's the new paint job. Either way, the whole place seems more welcoming. She orders the same thing as their first non-date.

He orders a glass of water.

She laughs, talks, and pretends to cry when the waiters come by to celebrate her "birthday." He doesn't participate in the conversation. She won't look at him.

It's enough she can feel his eyes on her. It's too much.

"It's been great, guys, but I think I'll take the rest of the day off," she announces back at the office.

She sits on her bed, laptop resting on her lap and a glass of fruit-punch in her right hand.

Staring at the blank screen, she wonders where she went wrong. How did she lose him? Or did he lose her? They were never on the same page. She stares at the screen a moment longer, then clicks over to Travelocity.

She wants to travel.

Not far, mind you. She just wants to see. To be outside of this city, this state. She books a flight to Houston (Texas, of all places!) for a fairly cheap price. A hotel in a small suburb, close to the highway (or so the reviews tell her). Supposedly, there's good shopping and great food in this surburb. And it's only 20 minutes from the heart of the city, not that she really wants to go there. Maybe a few museums. Art from the Metropolitan is being showcased there, and admission's only $15. The Phillies are playing whatever baseball team's in Houston, and maybe she'll do that. She books her flight back home to take off two weeks later. She doesn't finalize the order, yet.

**************************************

He just wants to be alone. He has to figure this out. He has to figure out what he doesn't know, why he's being left out.

He can't tell Karen that, of course. So instead, he does the only thing that will save him a talk.

He breaks up with her.

And she asks why, of course. He doesn't know what else to say.

He's said it all. And so, as cheesy and filthy as it makes him feel, he quotes a song: "I'm too tired to pretend it doesn't hurt to be left out."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Karen," he pleads. Don't make him say it.

But she wants to, she needs to hear it. "Her."

He steps to look out the window, and she sees it.

He's thinking about her. He feels left out of her life, which he is, and rightfully so.

And she knows that if he figures it out, she'll be completely singled out. She can't take that. She's strong, she can take competetion and stress but not lonliness. "Okay," she resigns, "I'll leave."

"I...See you at work Monday." His eyes silently plead. Don't say anything else.

"I'm leaving Scranton, Jim. You feel left out of her life, can you imagine how long I've been left out of yours? This...This game. I don't want to play anymore. I'm putting in for an immediate transfer, and taking vacation until it goes through."

She stands up a little straighter, having regained some confidence. He doesn't say anything, and she feels like slapping him, but he's so vulnerable. She stands on her tip-toes, and kisses his cheek. "Take care, Halpert."

And he's mad that she's not mad, but he can't figure out why.

He runs and grabs a coat, prays he remembers the way to her house.

Her flight will leave tomorrow. Tomorrow, she tells herself. In four hours, she can walk out of here and in twenty-four she can board her plane to take her halfway across the country.

She flips the radio behind her desk off and looks around, not that anyone noticed. She stands and straightens her slacks - is it more professional-looking to wear slacks on job interviews? - and walks towards Michael's door.

She can feel more than one set of eyes burning holes in her back.

Don't look back. Do not give them that, Pam.

"Michael," she says shyly, and knocks twice.

"Yee-ah, Pam. Enter."

She glances at the camera on her right, and makes a nervous but hopeful face. She goes in and closes the door behind her, making sure no one will be able to hear what she's about to say.

"Pamallama. Get it, Pam-a-llama?" He smiles stupidly.

"Llama, got it. Michael, um," she starts to stutter. "You know I'm leaving tomorrow, right, so I won't be in?"

"Yeah, Ryan's got his skirts and sweaters picked out and r-r-ready to go!"

"Yeah. Um. I'm going for two weeks, and I'll be back, but it could be something really...Good for me, I guess." He looks confused. "I'm applying to a school and a for a few jobs down there, Michael."

"That's what she -- wait, what? Jobs? You're moving?"

"No -- well, maybe. But Michael, it's just a really great --"

"You're leaving us?"

"It's a good opportunity for me, if I get into that school. I don't want to...Answer phones...Forever."

"We could get you on the cleaning staff,"

"I don't want to clean."

"We could get you certified in sales, you'd be awesome, Pam, don't do this." His sentences run together.

"I don't want to sell anything. Um, maybe art. Not paper. I won't know, Michael," she has to catch his attention again. "I won't know for two weeks, maybe two months. It's only April and the semester won't start until September. I could --"

"No, no, Pam. Just. Just go back to your desk."

She's done it. She told him. "Thank you, for everything. Michael." He finally looks at her. "Thank you." She steps behind his desk and hugs him, fully aware he's probably thinking about her breasts, but he really has helped her. Somehow. Maybe.

Another hour passes. Two. Uneventful. Three PM rolls around, and she's ready to bolt. She's so busy e-mailing and making plans that she doesn't notice Karen walk up to the desk.

"Pam."

"Huh? Oh. Hi, Karen," she plasters a smile on.

"Jim told me you're leaving?"

"Um, yeah. Two weeks. Houston. Jim told you?"

"Yeah. Well, we...We broke up, and he told me you were leaving, and I just wanted...I hope you have a good trip. It sounds awesome." Her words are spaced out, like she's not sure whether to laugh or encourage.

"I'm hoping it will be," she smiles, biting her bottom lip.

"What're you gonna do? Just relax? I would avoid the beaches, you know."

"Oh, yeah. I've actually got nearly the whole two weeks planned," she lifts her little printed schedule.

"AI?"

"Art Institue. The media design program is out of this world. They also..." She stops when she notices Karen's face change to something unreadable. "Sorry, nevermind. I get carried away with this."

"No, they also what?"

"Career placement," Pam admits.

A desk drawer slams, and she sees over Karen's shoulder a tall, lanky man with brown hair who hasn't spoken to her in six days head towards the break room and slam the door shut behind him.

She wakes up with a faint smile over on her lips, the sun peeking through her curtains and warming her bedroom. Today's the day. Her mom's on her way over to take her to the airport. She's really doing this.

She's really doing this.

And she thinks, maybe, he's to thank.

Those ten words have played over and over in her head.

Those ten words are about to change her life.

"You've got to take a chance on something sometime, Pam."

She makes her bed, does a little dusting and cleaning so she won't come home to a wrecked apartment. She makes sure she has her important papers and records packed, the rest are in a lockbox she's leaving with her mom.

She's not sad, like she expected she would be. She doesn't feel like she's running away, even though that was the original idea. She's just taking a chance.

She wonders if he'll follow his own advice. Probably not.

She's not expecting him to show up at her doorstep right as her mom's pulling up and tell her he loves her, beg her not to go.

Which is good, because he doesn't.

She doesn't expect a dozen red roses - or two - with a note saying he'll be right here when she gets back (which is good, because she knows he'd say "when you get back," and fuck him for thinking she'd come back, no matter what. She might not. She might take another chance).

He doesn't do that, either. 

She's not expecting him to meet her at the airport, or run to her gate and sweep her off her feet, or follow her to Houston like Adam Sandler did in 'The Wedding Singer.'

She knows he won't.

Standing in her living room, she catches the clock: 11:11 AM.

Make a wish, Pam.

She goes into the kitchen and leans at the bar. After a moment, she takes out some paper and a pen, and starts to write.

Jim,

I know I've screwed up. We both have. Over and over and over...Anyway, I don't have much time before my mom gets here, so I'll try and make this to the point.

I don't love you. I did, and I didn't know it. I'm sorry I didn't realize it. I should have.

All the things I should've done...I should've called you, I should've told you I hadn't married him. I should've told you the truth. But I didn't know. I didn't realize that I was in love with you until you said anything. And I know that's odd. How can anyone not know? Maybe I did. Maybe I was ignoring it, maybe my hopes of a terrace and a warehouse worker got in the way. I'm sorry.

Please don't be mad at me. I've tried, and I just can't stay mad at you.

I don't love you, Jim, but I think that I could. I think that I could if you'd give me the chance.

At least, please, let's work on being friends again. Please. That's what I need now, more than anything.

I'll be back in two weeks, but I'm taking my cellphone. You can call at night, anytime after nine (of course).

I'm so sorry.

-Pam

She reads it, over and over. Finally, she seals it in an envelope and considers mailing it. No, she decides.

She has her mother run her by Jim's so she can slip it in the mailbox on the way out of town.

When her flight lands, all she wants to do is explore. She's decided she'll rent a car, so a flashy red VW-beetle, complete with navigation system, feels just right.

Slowly but surely, she makes her way to her hotel and checks in. She unpacks slowly, stalling for something she's not sure of. She had no missed calls or voicemails on the flight. It's only five PM by the time she finally wanders out of her hotel, but that's six PM there and she knows she's probably the last thing on his mind.

She finds a little "cafe" on the town's Main Street, but her idea of cafe has always been a place where sitting outside was at least an option. The inside's dark, the walls littered with memorbilia. She's greeted by a tiny, teenaged teary-eyed hostess (whom she later overhears tell a waitress she's quitting right then, and screw the notice - she doesn't deserve this treatment). Done there, she window-shops a block or so and decides she's done for the day.

She digs out her laptop back inside her room and types an e-mail to Jordan (the involved best friend, remember?).

Jordan!-

Houston's awesome, so far. I haven't done much. Got here, got my rent-a-car (so cute, I'll attach a picture!), ate at the "cafe" (I had the world's smallest waitress, I swear!), and well, here I am. It was so nice out, warm and breezy. So different from Scranton, I think I'm in love!

Speaking of...Well, this morning before I left, you know, the 11:11 you taught me? I didn't really wish for anything...I guess. I wrote him a letter, though, and dropped it in his mailbox on the way out of town. How cowardly. I basically told him I was sorry, that I couldn't stay mad at him and I want to work on being friends. Oh - and that I don't love him.

I think tomorrow I may find a church to go to. My meeting with the school's not until Monday morning, so I have some time to kill. It's going to be a lonely two weeks.

Love, Pam

**

Sunday goes by quickly. The church she barges in on is small and bright, full of friendly people and faces. They tell her a few places she could visit, like the mall or the...well, there's not a whole lot to do here, so maybe she could see a ballgame. Sounds fun to Pam, but the idea of going alone doesn't exactly thrill her.

**

Monday. Her meeting was promising - the lady told her that, basically, all that has to be done for admittance in August is credit-transfer approval (she didn't know that was a possibility). The graphic design internship would've helped, but, oh well, the lady tells her. Can't change the past!

She heads back to the suburb where she's staying, not wanting to overdo it downtown, and finds the mall with surprising ease. Two hours and three new outfits later, she grabs a meal at the food court and heads back to her room.

She's not normally a napper, but has been asleep for about an hour when her cell phone rings from the nightstand beside her.

She runs to the nightstand and checks the caller ID. Jordan.

"Hey, Jordan," she tries not to sound disappointed.

"No problem," she feels tears stinging her eyes. "You got the e-mail?"

"I told him the truth," she lies down and squeezes her eyes shut.

"No, yeah, I told him."

"Good..." He pauses, waiting for her to explain herself. She doesn't. "How's Houston? The interview? And," he sounds a little cautious, "did you say you were going to church?"

"Jordan," she laughs, "I'm not some extreme sinner. I go occasionally. And these people were really nice. It was comforting." She's glad he's not pressing the original issue.

"Good, good. One of us has to go to Heaven!" His laugh is honest and energetic.

"Mmm, we'll see. I may have a chance still to ruin that." They laugh together, followed by a moment of silence while she just listens to him breathe. Then: "Oh, the interview. Jordan, it went so well! I met the head of the graphic design, she's so nice. I mean, the internship would've helped, but --"

"What?"

"What? Oh, no, Jordan, I don't --"

"Pam, stop!" He laughs, she smiles. "I don't take it personally, Pam. If it's not love, then it's definitely an addiction."

"To what?" She laughs. She hears a beep, indicating her call-waiting. "Hang on, got another call. Probably Mom."

"Hello?"

"Uh, uh, hang -- hang on, okay? I just...Um, other line, hold on," she stumbles.

"Yeah," he mumbles.

"Jordan? I've gotta -- it's him. I'll call you later. I gotta --"

"Yeah, thanks, yeah. Send my love, okay? Bye."

Click.

"Jim?" She holds her breath.

**

They talk for twenty minutes about nothing, about everything except what needs to be said. She asks what she's missed (not much), he asks how her interview went (very well) and if she's really thinking that Texas (of all places) is right for her (probably not long-term, but maybe for a while sometime soon). Finally, finally, he feels like it can't wait any longer.

"I got your note." He sounds scared.

"Oh," is all she can think to say as she exhales.

"What was the point?" Mad, now.

"What?" Not the conversation starter she'd been hoping for. hat had she been hoping for?

"You heard me. You left me that, telling me that you don't, in fact, love me, on the way out of town? What was the fucking point --" He's raising his voice.

She starts to tremble. She's heard enough. "Oh, okay," she hopes he can't hear the quiver in her voice. "That's so much different from you telling me you loved me on your way to Stamford?"

"No, I -- Yeah, it is. I dumped Karen for you. Pam." She doesn't say anything. "Pam."

"I didn't ask you to do that. And...No, no, how is it any different? I was engaged. Engaged, Jim. At least I told you. Maybe now --"

"Fuck, Pam, don't you think I know that? I knew it then. Just as well as I ever will. I just. You deserved to know."

"So did you. Maybe it's not too late to talk to Karen, Jim." She can't believe she's saying this. "She really, really cares about you. I mean, well, I do too, but she's...She's...She doesn't come with baggage or any of my crazy BS."

"That's not the same thing! I didn't dump anyone for you. That was for me." He doesn't say anything. "Jim?"

"I'm sorry. Sorry. Really. If I um, I didn't mean to hurt you. That...That wasn't the point. I just," she chuckles at the memory, "I just needed you to know."

"Great, fucking great, Pam. Thanks. Yeah. Laugh a little. This is fucking hilarious."

"No," and she can't fight tears any longer. "No, no, I'm...No, Jim."

"What, Pam? What? Do you hate me now? Never want to talk to me again? Wait, make my day -- tell me you've never liked anything about me. Go on," she hears what sounds like a glass hit the sink.

"I'm sorry. I don't know how many times I can say it. I'm just sorry." The room's spinning and she feels like she might vomit.

"You could've told me before I broke up with Karen."

"I know. I mean. I didn't know...Maybe I did. I'm a little late realizing some things."

He's eerily silent, then:

"What would make you stay?" She's speechless. She can see him, eyes shut tight, his free hand rubbing his forehead. His voice softens. "You don't...You made that clear, Pam. But you could...You said you could...I just...What would make you stay?"

"Why should I stay, Jim? Scranton. A paper company. Answering phones. There's nothing for me there right now. Why couldn't I stay here, and go back later? Or go somewere else?"

"You're getting ahead of yourself." She sighs. "Jim? Can I ask you something?"

He's quiet again, then: "I should probably let you go...Um. Can we talk tomorrow?"

"Um, I don't know," she says honestly. "Call me, if I'm not doing anything I'll answer."

"Goodnight," but he's already hung up.

She cries herself to sleep that night, wishing things could be easy.

The rest of Pam's trip seemed to fly by. At night she spoke to her mother and either Jordan or Jim. She tried to force herself to say she'd put Jordan first, that she only talked to Jim on nights that Jordan was at work. She wanted Jim to feel like she was pushing him away, like she was refusing to acknowledge anything beyond their friendly banter existed. The other side of that plan, though, was that she knew it was sadistic and she knew he didn't deserve that.

Her days were spent wandering, mostly. She'd managed to find an old friend from high school, and spent a couple of days catching up with her. They went to a Phillies game, saw a couple of movies (though the IMAX theatre was harder to find than she'd been told), did some shopping. The usual, Pam guesses.

On her last night in town, she sit outside her hotel room and lets her feet hang from the second-story walkway ("balcony"), listening to the planes flying in (how could anyone stand to live so close to an airport?) and the cars on the highway. It's all so vivid, compared to Scranton. She thinks it's brilliant and amazing and scary all at once. To have so much going on and still these people seem to be so bored.

Her phone ringing startles her from her thoughts. It's him.

"Hello?"

"Oh! Um. I don't know. I haven't been able to reach my mom tonight."

"Thanks, but I think I'll figure something out. Tomorrow's a Tuesday, anyway. You have work."

"Nope. Took the week off," he starts to crunch on something.

"What are you crunching on, Halpert? Jeez, I can't even hear the planes flying right over me," she teases.

She teases. This is good. This is easy. This is her avoiding the issue. Again.

"Mm," another loud crunch, probably deliberate; "Sunchips."

"Ooh, that sounds good. I haven't had like any junkfood since I've been down here. All restaurants. Which is why I'll be coming home in rags," she laughs.

"You should let me come get you. I'll take you to Subway. Real food, real chips. Yes!" He shouts the last part away from the phone, she can tell he's watching some sort of sports.

"Phillies winning?"

The soft hum of the air conditioning unit has become familiar; she sort of wonders how she'll sleep without it tomorrow.

"For what?"

"Is it that important to you?"

Like anything between them could ever be casual. She begins to think, her mind racing. What, in the entire time she's known him, has anything ever been casual? When has it not had some sort of underlying thought? A motive behind it?

"What?" she sighs, when she realizes he's been talking.

"Hey. You're back," he laughs. "Call your mom and then call me back."

"Why is it so important who picks me up tomorrow?"

"It's not," he promises. "I just wanna see you."

"We're both off the next three days, Jim. You could easily see me then,"

"I plan to," he states, "but tomorrow is one of those three days. So. Call her."

She doesn’t plan on calling her mother to cancel, she just does it. And once that’s done, she doesn’t plan on calling Jim to confirm the pick-up time; she just does.

On her last day in town, she goes to a drugstore and picks up a book to read on the plane. As she turns around, she’s faced with school supplies, and she remembers the excitement that school supply shopping used to bring. It wasn’t the actual going back to school that excited her, just the supplies. She would buy journals and binders, pens and pencils. And – this always threw her mother off – she’d go home and decorate everything, color it all and personalize every single piece with a sharpie.

Now, facing the journals and binders and pens and pencils, she decides that keeping a journal might not be a bad thing. They kept one in the fourth grade, why couldn’t she keep one now? She picks one up – already decorated with bright stripes – and heads back to her hotel.

*

When she sees Jim standing around with his hand on the back of his neck, she can tell he’s as nervous as she is. They attempt this awkward hug thing and it feels like she’s in a bad movie.

He goes with her to the baggage claim, making jokes and telling her if she left her stuff in Houston she better not be expecting Jim Halpert to refill her closet. She laughs half-heartedly, not knowing what else to do.

He helps her load her bags into his car. "Hungry?"

She really just wants to go home. "Yeah, I could eat. Something cheap, though."

"Nah, I’ll get it. There’s this great little place not too far from here. Some friends from college and I spent a lot of time there."

She’s tired and he’s hungry and things are just plain weird. She agrees and sinks into his car, relishing a slightly comfortable seat. "Can I put this window down?"

"Yeah, sure." He notices she’s got her headphones in. "You can plug your thing up to the car, if you wanna."

" ‘Thing,’ Halpert? I have a ‘thing’?"

"iPod, thing, whatever. The cord’s in the glove box." She plugs her iPod in because she doesn’t want to be rude.

They ride in silence, except for her music playing low. They enter the "bar and grill," which doesn’t even have a bar, in silence. They order, and she watches him stare at the table in silence.

She is definitely in a bad movie. "So," she had to say something, "what’ve you done with your week off so far?"

"Mowed my hallway, cleaned my three kitchens, you know. The usual." He smirks.

"Mowed your hallway?" She raises and eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah. My apartment complex is really up-and-coming. We’ve got grass in the hallways and a five-star chef in every kitchen. You should check it out," he winks.

"Hm. Tempting, but I think I’ll stay put. There’s a little left I need to do to it before I…" She stops herself. Before she what? Leaves Scranton? For a couple of years? For good? For herself? Because of him? For him?

"Yeah," he doesn’t miss a beat. He looks down at the table. "You could rent it out or something. It’s got what, three bedrooms?"

"Yeah," she nods. He finally looks at her again. "One of them is a studio thing right now, though. It’s a mess."

"Yeah. Well, I mean, my lease is up in August. What would you be charging in rent?"

"I don’t know; August is a long way off. I don’t even know that I’m going anywhere."

"Oh, no, yeah. But, yeah, you know, if you decide to rent out or whatever, keep me in mind."

"I will," she promises, faking a smile.

The waiter comes around with their food after another few minutes. Finally, Jim asks it.

"Why a letter, Pam?" He moves his food around on the plate.

Damn. She thought she could get through one day back in this damn state without confrontation. "Because I’m a coward, I guess." He waits. "I don’t…Jim. I don’t have the courage to do what you did or anything like that. That letter was all I could do and damned if I know the actual point of it. I just wanted to get that off my chest."

"Why then? Why do you keep running from me?"

"Because I didn’t know if I was coming back. There’s a whole world outside of Scranton, and yeah Houston’s not the most welcoming or planet-friendly city, but it’s something and it’s not here. But I wasn’t running."

"I...Pam. Karen is so fucking mad at me. With reason, I know. I'm the first to admit I screwed her over. But...I...For me to do all of that, everything from that damn casino night to dumping her for you. For me to do that, and you tell me you don't love me?" He pauses. "Did you mean it?"

"First off, no one asked you to dump her. Just like no one asked me to break up with Roy. Okay? And secondly...I did. I was over it and I thought you should know. Why do you get a six-month pity-party and get to flaunt that in my face and I get scolded and basically slapped across the face for finally waking up?"

She knows she’s said the wrong things. Conversation the rest of the afternoon is strained and tense. He drops her at her house and says maybe he’ll call her tomorrow. She thinks maybe she’ll go back to work.

*

She calls her mother and hits a button to go straight to voicemail; she really doesn’t want to talk. Just to let her know she's home safe.

Her house is dark, but clean, and she makes two trips to her bedroom, wishing like hell she had a first-floor ‘master suite.’ She unpacks in silence. She’s not even really thinking; it’s like she’s checked out of herself.

She finally makes her way downstairs around eight P.M. and heads to the kitchen. She plugs her phone into the charger (don’t ask her why she put it there, she doesn’t know) and reaches for a beer from the refrigerator, but opts for water instead.

She practically jumps onto her sofa and immediately sinks into it, feeling her body relax with more with every breath. She taps her lamp in the corner and digs out her journal.

Things are weird. In a good way, she thinks. They're talking, they're friends(-ish). Well, they're friendly. Sure, they don't pull pranks anymore. Sure, they have lunch together about once a month. They don't see each other outside of work. One afternoon, at lunch, he asks her.

"Why aren't we together?" He makes it sound so casual, so like it should be and there is and never was another option.

"I don't know, Jim. We're both...pretty busy right now..."

"I'm not that busy."

"I'm still taking classes. Those are like three nights a week, and then my Thursdays are designated Jordan nights, and I don't know. I feel really busy."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I don't...I can't handle a relationship right now. Jim, this is as good as it gets for us right now, please. Please don't complicate it."

"Complicate?" His eyebrows shoot up.

"Yes, complicate." She lowers her voice. "This I can handle," she motions to the space between them. "This is easy, this is friendly territory and there are no strings attached. After everything...This is all I can handle." She wipes a tear. Damn it, lunch was supposed to be easy.

They're quiet as they eat, now. Five, ten minutes pass.

"I think you're the girl I'm supposed to end up with." He shrugs when she stares incredulously at him.

"We talked about this already." She pokes at her fries.

"We did, but I thought maybe there'd be an updated train of thought."

"I guess you thought wrong."

"Guess so." He stares at her.

"I'm sorry for everything, Jim. Believe me, if I could turn back the clock I would. But this is where I am right now and I'm...just not ready to commit."

"So let's not," he smiles. "Let's go to dinner, watch a couple of movies. That's not commitment, that's coworkers who hang out outside of work for the purpose of entertainment."

She sighs.

* 

He doesn't date, anymore. She knows because he tells her. Neither does she, but if she says it out loud it only makes it more real and he seems so damned desperate and she can't handle looking desperate anymore.

Roy marries on a Saturday, less than six months after their break-up. The blonde bride is already showing. She attends the wedding and is surprised to see that he, unlike Phyllis, did not use all of her ideas. Just most of them. She brings Jordan and he dances with her, tells her she's beautiful, and not to forget that he's gay. But she is beautiful, he promises.

At the end of the evening, when all she allows Roy is a handshake, he tells her it's a boy. "Congrats," she says. "You'll make a good father."

*

A month goes by.

Two.

Things are slow, things aren't easy. She gets accepted as an early admission into the art school in Houston. She's in the breakroom, smiling up a storm, when Jim walks in.

"What's up, Beesly? Smiling awfully wide over there."

"Oh, nothing, I just got into AI in Houston," she shrugs, not managing to conceal her smile.

"Congrats," plain and simple congratulations. He leaves.

She stands at the sink, teapot in hand, stunned. Just congrats? Was he mad? It's not like she could've told him any sooner, she'd just found out herself.

Two can play that game.

She's shaking walking back to her desk. He's moved desks again, back to where she can see him and he can see her. She can't figure out why he looks so angry.

*

Of course she makes all the calls. Her mom, Jordan, her dad, Roy's mom (they never lost touch). Scrolling through her cellphone, there's only one more person she could call.

"Hello?" He sounds tired.

"Did I wake you?" Her voice is soft, scared.

"No, I wasn't sleeping."

"Oh. Um. Can I ask you something, Jim?"

"Mhm."

"Are you mad at me?" She hadn't expected herself to be so blunt. He hadn't, either, she guessed, because he took a minute to answer.

"Yes and no." He paused. "I thought we were good, Pam. We were headed in a good direction again. I know we said we weren't gonna hook up right now or anything, but --"

"But what? Why are you mad?"

"Because I don't want you to go."

She waits. "Elaborate, please. I'm not getting this."

"What's not to get? You go to Houston, go and do exactly what you want. I lose my best friend to hopes and dreams. Not that you can't achieve them, Pam, you absolutely can. It just makes me wish I'd chased mine."

"I...I don't know what to tell you, Jim."

"Tell me you love me."

She blinks once. Twice.

"Pam?"

"I'm here."

"Pam."

"What good would it do if I told you, Jim? I'm headed out of here in less than four months. And who knows if I'll come back?"

"It'd make all the fucking difference, Pam. It'd --"

"HOW?!" She grunts in frustration. "It would make no difference, Jim, zero, none. This obviously just isn't meant --"

"Jesus, Pam, shut up!"

"Excuse me?" Did he really just tell her to shut up?

"You heard me. God, Pam, I've sunk to the lowest of the lows for you. I've done all but get on my knees and beg you to just tell me maybe it could work. Maybe we could be together. And you know what? You're either not the girl I thought you were, or a really, really dense version of her."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Great, Pam, ask what 'dense' means. Sweet.

"Jesus. Pam --" he sighs. "I can't say this over the phone. Can you come over?"

*

Why did she do it? Why'd she say yes so easily? Why'd she go get in her car? Turn the engine on? Drive the fucking seven miles to Jim's apartment? Ugh.

She knocks. When he doesn't answer right away, her first instinct is to cower. To run. Run back to her car and pretend like he never demanded that of her. Like they were never anything more than fucking civil to each other.

She doesn't, though. She stands at the door and knocks a second time. He answers the door in jeans and a t-shirt. God, he looks good.

"Hey. Sorry. I was... Come on in." He steps aside, leaving an arm out as to point her inside. If this were any other situation, she might have giggled.

"Do we really have to do this tonight, Jim?" She sits on his sofa.

"We don't. I do."

She raises an eyebrow, gives him a quizzical look.

"I can't not say this to you, okay, this just has to come out."

She opens her mouth to speak, protest, scream - he doesn't know and he doesn't care. "Stop," he whispers. "Don't. Let me say this."

He sighs.

"This is gonna sting, Pam. And if you walk out that door as soon as I'm done, that's your choice, but you gotta know I'm right about this."

She shifts uncomfortably.

"This was never supposed to be about you."

More shifting. He sighs.

"Pam, this was never...It was, at first. It was about me, about lust. And then when those feelings didn't go away, and you were completely fucking oblivious to it all, it was about us. It was supposed to be about us and about love - true love, so fucking real it hurts love. And so what do I do? I try to take us there, make us real. I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my damn life with you. And you made it about you," he hisses the last word. "Little Pammy's afraid, little Pammy's gonna go hide behind big, mean ol' Roy so that she can keep dreaming, pretending her seemingly perfect life is something else. Little Pammy's still gonna marry Roy."

She wants to hide. She starts to cry, silently, eyes never leaving his.

"I just...God, Pam, sometimes I want to fucking shake you and tell you to grow up! I don't get why you can't see this. I didn't leave Scranton solely because of you. I had to get the hell out of here. You know how that feels, right? Running to Texas? There's no fucking other way for me to tell you I'd follow you to the end of the damn earth. I'm not gonna beg you to take me with you but if you asked, if you'd just admit that I'm not fucking delusional and that we're the friends we once were - the ones that had hope - I'd go with you."

She blinks away.

"I'd go in a second." He sits at his kitchen table, staring out into the living room at her. Was he too harsh? Why won't she say anything?

Five or six minutes pass. She can't be sure, her heart's not exactly keeping time at the moment.

She's not dying - at least, she doesn't think she is - but she's seeing her life flash before her eyes. His first day. The yogurt. The dojo. The olympics. His party. The dundies. Casino night. His first day back. His eyes when she told him she was accepted into the college in Houston. His eyes when he basically just told her what her heart had been trying to say all along.

But it doesn't stop there.

A big, busy city. College. Him at a desk, a real desk. In a real office. With a competent boss - no, a competent editor. Scranton in the summer, finalizing the sale of her house. A small wedding. Michael crashing it, half-drunk and crying because his 'children' are leaving forever. A home in a surburban area. Three little girls, curly brown hair and bright brown eyes.

She shakes her head, snaps out of it.

"I'm not scared," she whispers so soft he almost can't hear her. She stands. "I'm not afraid to go alone, that's why I didn't bother asking. Why can't friends be enough for you?"

He stands, too, and stomps toward her. "Because it's not enough for you, either. Pam, look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me. Do that. If you can do that for me, instead of fucking writing it down and taping it to my door, shit, I'll go out and start your car up for you. I'll help you pack all of your shit. You can go to Houston and I'll never bother you again. Doesn't mean I won't love you anymore, I'll just let you not love me."

She stomps closer to him. Staring up into his eyes, she can see - she can feel - he's not lying. She's searching his eyes for something - anything - to tell her that he's wrong. That that new asshole he just ripped her was meant for someone else. And when she can't find it:

"I love you."

Just then, it starts to rain.

"I love you, Jim," she whispers. She thinks the rain hitting the windows is perfect right now because it feels like he’s staring daggers at the floor and she’d almost rather them be at her.

But he doesn't move. He stays bending over her, eyes drilling holes into her shaky surface. She waits for him to say something, Jesus, say something, but it doesn't happen.

Nothing happens.

An eternity - or was it just a minute and a half? - passes before any blood leaves her blush-stained cheeks and she gets the courage to speak again. He's just been staring at her. She thinks he blinked twice, but don't ask her, she can't be sure.

"Jim, I don't --" she starts to tremble.

He clutches her face in his hands. He kisses, rough and needy, at first. So strong she literally gets weak in the knees and is grateful he's holding her up by her face. She'd be a puddle by now, otherwise.

A moment passes, neither of them have actually moved. His lips are just pressed to hers. She doesn't know how to react. She doesn't want to break it, but she knows he's waiting on her and he's just made this amazing, bold move and what kind of guy doesn't follow up on that? So she stands up a little straighter, snakes an arm around his neck, and gives it up, lets him in.

He kisses her like he has to, like she's the last source of oxygen on the planet. She moans softly and it only encourages him more. He turns and runs her back into a wall, never leaving her mouth.

And in that moment, she wants everything and nothing from him.

She coughs a little, a side effect of the tickle in the back of her throat, effectively ending the kiss and ruining the moment.

He chuckles, she chuckles, he wipes her tears.

She looks down at her feet, trying to regain consciousness. His stomach grumbles.

"Chinese sound okay?" she offers.

He counters with another kiss.

*

An hour and three boxes of Chinese take-out later, they've decided they hate work and aren't going in tomorrow. They've also decided they're finally, officially boyfriend-girlfriend. Or whatever twenty-somethings are supposed to call it. Maybe. Technically, they made out for like fifteen minutes and then he made some quip about never going that far on the first date. She reminded him it was like their thousandth, so really, they’re dating. Have dated? Whatever.

"What about Houston?" he asks.

"What about it? I can't just...not go." Yeah, it was probably really stupid to start to pay for a house right now.

"But it's like...It's a two-year thing, right?"

"To get my foot in the door, yeah. I mean. I've got a lot done just...what I've done here in Scranton. I think I could manage it in like a year and a half. It'll be heavier workloads but cheaper in the end and I could be back in Scranton by the time I'm like 29. The house'd be half paid for, I can't ditch on that. I haven't even lived there a year."

"You could rent it out."

"I was thinking maybe you could get it worn-in. Make it feel all home-y and safe," she giggles.

And to think, two hours ago she just about hated him.

"Well, I could do that," he takes a sip of his soda, "I'd also kind of like to take night classes though, so, I don't know when you expect me to prepare the palace."

"Classes in what?"

"Anything," he leans against the couch and rubs his eyes with his palms. "Dunder Mifflin is not...smart. I hate it. It'd suit me fine if I never had to go back."

She puts her carton on the coffee table and leans against the arm of the sofa. "I don't care if you never go back. I still gotta grin and bear it, though...It's paying my tuition."

"Pam?"

"Yeah?" She twirls leftover noodles around her fork.

"I hate your house."

"You’ve only ever seen the deck. And half of the living room."

"What else is there to see? It’s a three-bedroom little house in Scranton."

"I like Scranton." She forces herself not to pick the carton up from the coffee table. "I painted all the rooms upstairs. I was gonna do the living room, but I can’t reach very far up."

"I could help you with that," he leans in like he’s going to kiss her.

"Oh, no, Mister. You hate my house, you don’t get to paint it."

"Might make me hate it less. Then I could get it all lived-in for you while you’re gone."

"Nope," she scoots away, "you don’t deserve to live there."

He grabs her by the waist and pulls himself down on top of her, kissing her.

"It had to be you, didn’t it, Jim?"

"Was there ever another choice?"

"Well, yeah, there were. Choices. None of them were as goofy looking, though."

"Ouch, Beesly," he kisses her. "That hurt."

"Whatever," she kisses him quickly, "you’re kind of like a masochist, anyway. Look what you’ve put up with all these years."

*

A year later, she thinks this is where she’s supposed to be.

She’s in Houston and he’s in Scranton, living in her house. They’re not "together," like a long-distance relationship or anything, because that makes breathing hurt. They don’t date other people, they aren’t in a relationship, they just don’t date.

They tell each other they love them, and they’ve met the other’s parents, and they’ve talked about marriage and kids and real jobs, but they’re not together.

She listens to A*Teens and SClub7 while painting, he listens to bands she can’t pronounce while on the phone with her just because it makes her pout "Jiiiiimmmmmm!" and he thinks it’s kind of cute.

He has everything. He knows when she comes back in fourteen months, six weeks, and two days, the party’s at her house and it’s going to blow her ‘housewarming’ party out of the damn ocean because he’s got everything.

He gets it.