He stores them in boxes, carefully, in the car, in his closet. He keeps them to himself, under the mattress, in the pocket of his jacket, in his tool box.

He looks at them more than usual lately. On coffee breaks, between calls, when he pulls a prank on Dwight and he can’t laugh with her afterwards. She’s in New York, after all. The distance establishes a great struggle both of them are bound to face. Somehow the dull constant pain in his chest is more bearable when he holds her photos, close, over his heart. It makes him feel less alone. As if she could appear, out of nowhere from the second drawer of his desk, tiny and glimmering and willing, and they could chew the fat over coffee.

Some of them are blurry, others have too much flash it’s almost impossible to guess when they were taken. Most of the time she’s making faces at the camera or he’s giving him bunny ears. Sometimes he has his eyes closed and her hair is messy.

But he doesn’t care.

The beauty overfloods from them. The sheer uniqueness of what they had, what they have and what they will accomplish.

He decides he’s going to visit her this evening. Take some photos, renew their love.

That thought makes him smile.