Pam turned the application over in her hands.

The crisp white sheets.

The simple typeface, stark and impersonal.

She toyed with the tiny holes in the top corner where a single staple had held everything together.

She’d already inspected it three times, checking for mistakes, and she’d found nothing.

It was sort of ironic to think that, after years of mindless work at a paper company, a few simple sheets of paper would have such a profound impact on her life.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and evenly, and did what she did best.

The whole situation was ridiculous. What kind of idiot asks the woman he still loves for advice on the (other) woman he’s with?

Jim supposed that, (not quite as) deep down (as he’d like to think), he was hoping she’d tell him that he was right. That he shouldn’t be encouraging another woman. That he shouldn’t even *have* another woman.

That she loved him. Wanted him. Needed him. That it was all a terrible mistake. A big misunder…standing.

Misunderstanding. After all, that’s what got him into this mess, isn’t it? An unforgiving avalanche of misunderstandings.

Karen was…easy to understand.

It was getting worse. Looking at him, listening to him. Watching them together. The ache had begun to eat at her…numbing her. She wondered if this was how he’d felt. But somewhere in the back of her mind…she doubted it.

If he had felt this way all that time…he’d have said something. Anything.

She’d learned to ignore the uncomfortable silences. She’d had her own theories and heartaches to deal with.

That horrible feeling of mediocrity still threatened to consume her.

But she was done with the numbness. She was going to make herself feel something…even if it killed her inside.

She was withering away.

Part of him wanted to hold her, comfort her. But that part of him was slowly suffocating beneath the part of him that selfishly enjoyed it.

Because a surprisingly strong part of him felt she deserved to go through it. To wallow in the rejection and disconcerting chasm growing between them.

He could feel the hope dying within him as he realized that, on some level, he enjoyed the haunted look in her eyes. He wondered if she’d cry if she accidentally caught him kissing Karen.

His eyes dulled miserably, but he smiled at the thought.

She couldn’t see the look on his face, but she knew he was looking at Karen.

She averted her eyes, breathing slowly, deliberately. She looked up, her eyes aching as she stared into the bright office lights, silently willing the tears to stay back, stay away.

She was so close, almost ready.

She glanced over at Angela, strangely comforted by the curt nod she received. Steeling herself, she typed the words that would set everything in motion. She heard his computer *ping* as he received the IM only a few feet away.

He flinched when he heard the *ping*. He checked his computer instinctively, but found nothing. Confused, he looked up to see Dwight leaning towards his monitor, furiously typing, obviously suspicious.

Then the strangest thing happened.

Dwight sat back in his chair, apparently satisified, looked right past Jim, and nodded.

Mystified, Jim swivelled around to see Pam nod discreetly back. She seemed…relieved. She fiddled with the phone, got up, and walked into the empty break room.

He almost didn’t notice Dwight watching her out of the corner of his eye. Soon after, Dwight stood up and followed her.

What the hell?

It was both awkward and comforting, having them acting as her moral support.

Angela had been oddly understanding after Jim’s transfer. And through her, Pam had received Dwight’s seemingly boundless loyalty.

She quietly detailed her plan to Dwight, relaxing gradually as he nodded in unfailing agreement. He stood tall and proud, so accepting of her decisions, so secure in his own.

“Fact. I drink two gallons of milk every day. This has more than tripled my bone density over time. As a result, I am ten times stronger than the average human male.”

They could still be infuriating, of course.

JHalpert: So…what’s up?

PBeesly: Nothing.

JHalpert: Come on, Beesly, did you really think I’d let that go? :0)

JHalpert: Seriously, you *have* to tell me what’s going on.

JHalpert: :0(

JHalpert: Is this some sort of elaborate prank?

JHalpert: Are prostitutes involved? (Because if they are, I want in.)

JHalpert: ?

PBeesly: Seriously. Nothing is going on.

JHalpert: You just spent ten minutes with Dwight.

JHalpert: Alone.

JHalpert: Voluntarily.

JHalpert: That’s not nothing. That is decidedly *something*.

JHalpert: Actually, that is the very *definition* of something.

PBeesly: Seriously. Let it go.

JHalpert: Physically incapable.

PBeesly: Fine. Roof. 5pm.

JHalpert: Done.

Her heart stopped momentarily.

She’d done it. She’d finally set things in motion.

She placed her hand over her heart, willing it to beat again. It thumped weakly in response. If she wasn’t careful, she would give herself a palpitation. She smiled.

She thought it might be fitting if she actually died of a broken heart.

She was being too literal, of course. And it was probably morbid, but the idea warmed her.

If tonight went well, she would simply abort the plan. But she knew, somehow, that it wouldn’t. It would be hard, painful, messy.

And she welcomed it.

He snorted quietly. Pam and *Dwight*? The very idea was ridiculous.

And then…it wasn’t. He was blindsided by the sudden realization that she’d had no one else.

It was a disturbing epiphany. Never once had he pictured her alone. In his head, there had always been someone there, comforting her. He'd assumed it was Roy.

But she’d left Roy.

He looked around.

Michael.

Ryan.

Phyllis.

Stanley.

Toby.

Kelly.

Kevin.

Angela.

Creed.

Meredith.

Dwight.

The concussion. Pam hugging him, saying she’d miss him.

Pam.

At reception…staring at his desk…truly alone for the first time in her life.

Pam and Dwight.

Shit.

Her things were in a bag by her desk. Angela would grab them on her way out so Pam didn’t have to go back after…

She felt strangely disappointed that it all fit into one bag.

She waited, three minutes early, and remembered that night.

“I’m in love with you.”

“What?”

“I'm really sorry if that's weird for you to hear, but I needed you to hear it. Probably not good timing, I know that, I just…”

“What are you doing? What do you expect me to say to that?”

“I just needed you to know. Once.”

“Well, I…uhm…I can't.”

She was already on the roof, looking out over the parking lot, when he arrived.

He’d told Karen that he had some paperwork to fax.

She wrapped her arms around herself. She looked cold, but she wasn’t shaking.

He’d helped Karen get her coat on. He’d felt strangely detached.

She turned around and saw him. She looked…empty.

He’d wondered if Karen would be angry if she knew where he was.

Her mouth moved, slowly, like she was drowning. “I’m in love with you.”

He blinked.  “What?”

“I just needed you to know. Once.”

He’d already made dinner plans with Karen.

He was so angry.

She’d known he would be angry. She’d known because she had been angry.

Devastated.

To think that all that time…

She watched the blood rush to his face as he searched for words…and found them.

She knew he was yelling at her. She heard bits and pieces, but she wasn’t really listening.

That night. Tried. Felt. Misinterpreted.

Karen. 

Her eyes closed in relief. Finally.

That was all she needed to hear. The plan had been set into motion. Now he could understand. Learn. Recognize.

He didn’t watch, didn’t comprehend yet, as she smiled and walked away.

He stood frozen, breathing heavily, as she smiled sadly and simply walked away.

As if she hadn’t just ripped him apart. Torn his life into pieces. Peeled the tape off the shards of his shattered heart.

She loved him.

He should be happy. He should be kissing her right now, clutching her to his chest, his hands buried in that ridiculous coat of hers.

But all he felt was defeat.

He hadn’t known…hadn’t thought…

But he was with Karen now. He couldn’t just leave her. Hurt her.

He remembered his last words (“I…can’t.”) and went inside.

They sounded so familiar.

She walked awkwardly. The gravity of her situation was overwhelming, and her legs were simultaneously weak and stiff.

As she reached her car, a pair of strong hands steadied her from behind.

She closed her eyes, briefly allowing herself the illusion that it was Jim, though she knew otherwise.

She turned in Dwight’s arms, hugging him fiercely. She basked in Angela’s sympathetic, albeit disapproving, gaze. She shed a few tears, but made no sound.

She pulled away slowly, thanking Angela as she took her bag.

Angela softened momentarily. “We thought…we could start tonight. If you’d like.”

She smiled, nodded. “Thanks.”

He sat in his car for seventeen minutes, breath puffing out in clouds, before remembering to turn the heat on.

His anger had warmed him at first. But, eventually, he’d been left cold.

He twisted the key in the ignition, felt the engine rumble weakly in protest. Two more minutes before he hit the button for the heater.

A loud beep startled him. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone. Two voicemails. He wondered how he hadn’t heard it ring, but didn’t really care.

They were both from Karen.

He deleted them both, uninterested, and drove to the restaurant.

She didn’t have much.

When she’d moved into her own apartment, she had pared everything down to the necessities. Her new place was too small for luxuries.

She'd been surprised at how unnecessary some things now seemed. Things that used to hold such memories.

Now, she found herself prioritizing once more, finding less and less meaning in possessions.

Dwight held up a shoebox filled with ten years’ worth of ticket stubs.

She looked down. “Garbage.”

Angela held up a sketchbook.

Pam was silent for a while. Then, “Garbage.” A whisper.

Dwight and Angela exchanged looks. Angela hid it safely away.

Dinner was awkward. Forced. Inevitable.

Karen didn’t know where he’d been or what had happened, but he still felt obligated somehow to make amends.

He ordered for her, something he knew Pam found romantic, but Karen preferred to make her own decisions.

He had the wandering violinists play for them, something he knew Pam would have found hysterical, but Karen thought it was obnoxious.

He offered to share a fancy dessert with her, something he knew Pam found intimate, but Karen was on a sugar-free diet.

He walked her to the door later, but couldn’t bring himself to kiss her.

Everything she was taking fit into two cars.

Dwight had packed both cars precisely, using all available space, without blocking any of the windows. It was a safety hazard.

There was no furniture. She’d replace it all eventually.

Dwight would ride alone, and Angela would accompany Pam. Angela had insisted that it was unseemly for a single woman to ride alone with a single man.

(Nobody mentioned that she would be riding back with him. Alone.)

Pam was actually looking forward to it. She liked to listen to Angela talk about Dwight.

She softened, smiled, when she spoke of him.

He hadn’t left the house since he’d gotten home from dinner with Karen Friday night.

When Karen called, he claimed illness. Muted sympathy and regrets hung between them in silence. He promised he’d see her at work on Monday.

He spent the weekend in misery and confusion.

Forty-eight hours later, time ran out.

He showered, shaved, dressed.

He decided to take his cues from Pam.

If she acted like nothing had happened, he would do the same. If she acted…differently, he would adjust.

Nothing needed to change.

Until he entered the office and realized that everything had changed around him.

It was easier somehow. Knowing that she wouldn’t see Jim for a while was hard, but because it was her choice…somehow that made it easier.

Her tiny new studio was sparse, but clean.

Angela had been surprisingly helpful in finding the space. Apparently, a former member of her church had gotten into real estate after moving to the area, and she’d made arrangements for Pam almost a week earlier.

While it was mildly overbearing for her to pick out Pam’s new residence (without actually consulting her about it), Pam couldn’t help but feel cared for.

It made the transition easier.

Pam was gone.

It had taken nearly two hours for him to begin digesting that piece of information, and it was still stuck in his throat.

She’d left.

He’d entered the office to find a barren reception area. No pencil cups, no pictures, no jelly beans…nothing.

The only person who seemed to know what was going on was Dwight. He’d already hired a temp.

Ryan was teaching the new guy to use the phone system.

Apparently, Pam had applied for, and been accepted into, the corporate training program for graphic design.

In New York.

Jim’s stomach clenched. He felt sick.

She had two days to settle into her new life.

The training program would last four months, with classes every weeknight from 5pm to 9pm. In addition to tuition, Dunder-Mifflin was providing her with a small monthly stipend to cover basic expenses during her training.

Thanks to Jan, she had a part-time position ready for her at corporate. Three days a week, she would work from 8am to 4pm, getting off just in time for class.

And, thanks to New York’s incredibly high cost of living, she’d actually be making slightly more than she’d made working full-time in Scranton.

Interesting.

He’d been overwhelmed at lunchtime, bombarded from all sides by questions.

Everyone assumed that Jim, Pam’s closest coworker, would have all the answers.

He was afraid, at first, that Karen would be suspicious of the general assumption that Jim knew Pam best. But she seemed just as distracted as anyone else.

Apparently, she and Pam had been friendlier than he’d thought.

To make matters worse, Dwight had seemed particularly smug all day long.

So, of course, Jim's brain wasn’t quite at full capacity when, digging for his calculator, he opened his bottom drawer and found a frosty yellow jello mold.

She sighed, exhausted.

Until work and classes began, she had to focus extra hard to keep her mind off of Jim.

She’d spent the morning furniture-shopping and scouting around town.

She’d spent the early afternoon putting clothes away, rearranging the corner of the studio currently engulfed by her art supplies, and making a comprehensive grocery list.

Still, her mind wandered.

She wondered if he’d found the jello mold yet.

She smiled, remembering the look of delight that had lit up Dwight’s face when she’d informed him of his role in her plan to get Jim back.

She hoped it worked.

The sounds of the office suddenly flooded back into his consciousness.

He’d been staring at the yellow monstrosity in his desk drawer.

His eyes flashed around the office, nervous energy making them dart frantically. Nobody seemed to be aware of his personal torment.

Leaning over, he poked at the rubbery round mass.

It wiggled at him mockingly.

He scowled at the unholy confection as the overhead lights bounced off its slick surface…illuminating words within.

He hesitated slightly, thoroughly confused, before poking the gelatinous demon once more.

There was something inside, and it had his name written all over it.

Literally.

She figured if she was going to think about him, it would damn well be on her own terms.

For the first time in her life, she splurged on something impractical. Retail therapy.

She got a shiny black iPod to match the MacBook she’d gotten for her impending classwork.

She spent four hours on iTunes downloading music.

Rufus Wainwright. Death Cab For Cutie. The Shins. The Killers. Johnny Cash. Snow Patrol. Queen. The Beatles. Fiona Apple. Ben Folds.

Hundreds more.

Every song he’d ever played for her.

And she put them all into a playlist she named “More Than That”.

Pam had once said that he was like MacGyver, but with flippy hair.

He used a small plastic ruler to cut open the jello, and a small binder clip to extract the note within. It was sealed inside a plastic baggy.

He affected an air of practiced nonchalance as he opened the baggy beneath his desk, and delicately withdrew the note.

Dropping the baggy into the wastebasket beneath his desk, he palmed the note and stood up, casually shoving his hands into his pockets.

He sauntered back towards the men’s bathroom, locked the door, and prepared to read the note.

She’d been dozing on the couch, dreaming of him, when the vibration of her cell phone startled her awake.

 “H-lo?” she answered, yawning widely.

“The dog has been walked,” a hushed voice whispered.

Her brain fumbled for the meaning of such a ridiculous sentence.

“What?”

“The parrot has learned a new phrase.”

She stifled a giggle. Dwight was so weird sometimes. She feigned ignorance.

“Huh?”

His tone heightened with urgency. “The Millennium Falcon has jumped into hyperdrive.”

“I don’t get it.”

“He found the jello,” he muttered, his voice deflated.

“Oh,” she giggled. “Thanks, Dwight.”

He grumbled and hung up.

“I know how you feel right now.

Confused. Overwhelmed. Disconnected.

You’re not sure what to do.

The drudgery of your day has been amplified, and the one person that made everything okay, that made it all worthwhile, is gone.

You hope you’re dreaming, but you know better.

You desperately need to talk to someone, but the one person you need most is the one who has caused the whole complicated mess.

And the only thing you’re sure of…is that it’s all your fault. 

This is what it feels like to be abandoned.”

He crumpled the note into his pocket.

Shit.

She was almost disturbed at the feeling of satisfaction that had welled up inside of her after Dwight’s quasi-mysterious call.

She felt cruel for a moment.

Her eyes were red and watery, ready to spill over, when she realized that it was not, in fact, cruelty that had compelled her…but a desperate need to justify her actions.

It wasn’t that she needed Jim to understand that she was right (because she didn’t necessarily believe that she was), she just needed him to understand that she had not been wrong.

He needed to know the truth.

Every painful piece of it.

He felt unstable.

Like a chemical solution that had been fizzing along in angry disarray, ready to explode at any moment…

And someone had just spilled him all over the counter. He was eating away at everything around him.

This was no longer a mental, or emotional, reaction. His brain had fizzled out, and his muscles were reacting in undisciplined panic.

He felt spastic and unquenchable.

He returned to his desk in a haze, avoiding Karen’s eyes.

He no longer knew if he was sad, or hurt, or angry.

It no longer mattered.

He just knew that he wasn’t okay.

The day had already taken a severe toll.

She simply wasn’t prepared to cope with the empty expanse of an unfamiliar city, and she knew it.

That’s why she’d planned so meticulously.

She had training every weeknight, work and supplementary art lessons alternating weekdays, and she’d booked her weekends full of experimental classes like yoga, kickboxing, punk rock aerobics, roller derby boot camp, and any other ridiculous venture that the local YWCA had a flyer for.

She had every intention of drowning herself in endless exhaustion for the next four months.

If she could survive one more empty day tomorrow.

He slumped over his desk, drained.

Karen approached him and spoke, and he nodded his awareness, but her words didn’t register. She nodded, satisfied somehow, before leaving.

He hated her a little for not sensing his anguish.

His body fought to function normally.

iPod in bag. Papers in folders. Folders in drawer. Coat. Leave.

His brain whimpered a suggestion. Trash the jello now, or it would melt in his drawer overnight.

He pulled it out…and noticed something beneath it.

Dropping the jello haphazardly into the wastebasket, he reached into the drawer and pulled out a sheet of thick parchment paper.

120.

Unable to keep herself contained in her tiny new apartment, she had ventured outside at 1:20am.

She walked 120 steps, paused, and looked up. She saw nothing but a great, expanding blackness. She continued walking.

She counted 120 parked cars, paused, and looked around. She saw nothing but a few quiet passersby enjoying the night air. She continued walking.

She counted 120 shallow breaths, paused, and looked inside of herself. She saw nothing but a wounded heart and an empty stomach.

120.

The number of miles from New York to Scranton.

(She’d MapQuested it.)

120 days away from Jim.

It was still and dark inside his house.

The quiet was so complete that it had actually become audible, a giant thrum in his ears.

The nothing was so pervasive that it had become something.

It was the loudest, most insistent silence he’d ever heard.

He inhaled thickly, feeling the air rushing into his lungs, and wondered how long it had been since he’d taken his last breath.

His fingers trailed along the torn edge of parchment. It had been ripped away from something.

Involuntarily.

His eyes fought against the darkness, tirelessly tracing the lines again

and again and

again.

She flipped the switch in the bathroom, leaving the door open a few inches, around 3am.

She’d never adjusted to sleeping alone, and the unfamiliar surroundings just exaggerated her uneasiness.

She opened her cell phone and used the bright display to illuminate the corners of the wall near her bed, scanning for telltale signs of spiders.

Satisfied that nothing would be crawling into bed with her, she slipped under the covers, exhausted.

She refused to feel silly about her nighttime ritual any longer.

She was on her own now. There was no one left to laugh at her childish fears.

Tuesday went by uneventfully.

Wednesday was dinner with Karen, weak conversation, an empty bed.

Thursday should have been quiet, since Karen was upset with him (read: silent treatment), but Kelly was curious about the obvious tension (read: vocal treatment).

Friday was awkward as he struggled to convince Karen to forgive him.

Days passed.

Life spanned out before him endlessly, and he got heartburn whenever he thought of spending any more of it with Karen.

But he couldn’t leave her now.

Because if he couldn’t love Karen...then he couldn’t love anybody.

(Except Pam.

And he didn't want to love Pam anymore.)

Work was surprisingly easy, considering how well she was being paid.

Everyone at corporate seemed to have their own personal assistant. Even some of the assistants had assistants.

Most days passed in a blur of computer games and green tea lattes. Her nights were long and strenuous and incredible.

The first couple of weeks, she was left gasping for breath, forcing her inactive body to activate, to become active, to perform activities.

But she had learned to breathe regularly since then.

And it was just about time for Dwight’s next mission.

She just hoped that Angela wouldn’t be too obvious.

Karen had finally stopped glaring at him in dissatisfaction.

Phyllis had nearly stopped glancing at him sympathetically.

Dwight had actually stopped squinting at him with suspicion.

Kelly had almost stopped searching him for substandard clarification.

Angela had more or less stopped glowering at him disapprovingly.

Toby had just stopped peeking at him curiously.

Michael would probably never stop gazing at him in (assumed) camaraderie.

Things had finally started looking…if not up, then at least manageable.

Until that seemingly innocuous day, late in February…

When, once again, he opened that infuriating drawer to find another gelled note staring back at him...mercilessly.

She was irritable all day long, just waiting for Dwight’s call.

She got her boss’ coffee order wrong (though she’d been fetching it for nearly three weeks now), and had to go back to the coffee shop to replace it.

She had to demote herself to medium-level sudoku, because she was having trouble concentrating.

She got black marks all over her brilliant white Keds in a freak Sharpie accident.

She realized she’d forgotten to pack her lunch…all she had was a brown paper bag with a plastic spoon and three napkins inside.

Frustrated, she silently willed her phone to ring.

He’d shut the drawer immediately, horrified.

Not again.

It had been nearly three weeks, and he still hadn’t reconciled his feelings over the first note.

And that sketch…

He tried ignoring it, but found himself staring at his paperwork, unable to decipher the words and numbers in front of him. The distraction was crippling.

After an hour of inefficient denial, he finally gave in to the temptation of the drawer. He eased it open, office supplies in hand, and quickly retrieved the note from the jello.

He closed his eyes, breathing heavily…and read the note.

“Ask Angela for some nickels.”

In the end, curiosity won, and he approached Angela’s desk. She glared up at him, obviously irritated.

“What?”

“Uhm…” He cringed inwardly. “Can I borrow some nickels?”

She stared at him silently, her mouth open, as if she would berate him for such an insipid request.

He fidgeted.

She abruptly shut her mouth, straightened, and opened a drawer, withdrawing some coins.

“Fine, but I expect to be repaid tomorrow. For every day that you do not return my money, I will require ten percent interest.”

He stared at her, disbelieving.

“Understand?” she barked.

He nodded and left, coins in hand.

Dwight was still texting her frequent updates.

Jim had given in to his curiosity and approached Angela. (She giggled at the mental picture her brain furnished. He’d always been a little wary of Angela.)

Apparently, Angela had been very convincing. Dwight was certain that Jim had no idea she was in on it.

Pam could read the satisfaction in his words, the great pride that he had for his secret love.

…And, honestly, she felt a smidgen of pride herself, for her secret friends.

Now they were just waiting for him to figure out what to do with the nickels.

It took him twenty minutes to figure out what the nickels were for.

Honestly, he was a little ashamed of himself for taking so long. Once he’d thought of it, it became inherently obvious that it was the only possible answer.

The vending machine.

He remembered clearly the day he had handed the bag of nickels to Dwight. The look on his face had been priceless. Of course.

The vending machine.

But what was in it? He hadn’t noticed anything missing…

Then again…

Whatever it was, he was fairly certain he didn’t want anyone else getting a hold of it.

The message finally came. He was headed towards the break room.

A wave of relief flooded her overworked system, muscles relaxing, airways opening.

It was somewhat irritating that she was allowing herself to be so affected by the goings-on in Scranton, even if they were her doing.

The whole point of the plan was to put him through all of the painful feelings and decisions and situations that she had been put through.

She wasn’t supposed to be affected by it, because he hadn’t been.

She rolled her eyes and stretched.

Then again, she hadn’t gotten clandestine notes either.

Hmm.

He edged his way into the break room, only to find Karen staring fixedly at the vending machine.

Shit.

Her head swiveled slowly towards him, an unfamiliar look on her model-perfect face. He wondered, perhaps idly, if Pam felt threatened by her. He tried not to care.

He refocused on Karen. She looked…curious.

He tried to act as casual as possible.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the nickels were for something else. Maybe she was just debating between Sun Chips and Doritos.

“Jim? Why is there an envelope in the vending machine with your name on it?”

Maybe not.

Shit.

Uh-oh. Bad news from Dwight.

Karen had gotten to the vending machine before Jim had.

She had a sudden flash of a cartoon that Jim had pinned to her chair once, after a prank on Dwight had backfired.

It was a little cartoon dog with a thought bubble over his head that read “Drat! Foiled again!”

She’d giggled and blushed and taped it to her computer. She’d taken it down when he’d transferred to Stamford, unwilling to torment herself with memories…

She wondered where it was…and what Jim would say to Karen…and why things always had to become so complicated.

His knee-jerk response was to play dead.

Unfortunately, that worked in very few office-related situations. He supposed he would have to play it by ear.

He fought to sound surprised. “What?”

“There’s an envelope in the machine with your name on it.”

“Seriously? How much?”

“What?” Her eyebrows gathered and her nose crinkled.

Guerilla tactics. Distract and confuse her, then attack.

Except…without the attacking part. Good plan.

“How much is it?”

She scanned the machine. “Uhm…sixty-nine cents.” She frowned. “That can’t be right.”

Inwardly, he cursed Pam. This wouldn’t be easy. He clenched his fists…

Then counted out fourteen nickels.

She waited, desperately curious, for news on the Jim/Karen/Vending Machine situation.

She couldn’t decide whether to feel smug, or victorious, or defeated, or amused, or horrified, or just plain tragic. After all, what sort of person did this sort of thing?

Well, she did.

And, honestly, she supposed that Jim might have…if he’d thought of it first.

Ahh, smug. Good. She was hoping for smug.

She stared at the bowl of untouched jelly beans on her desk. Her boss didn’t eat sweets, and not many others really came by her desk.

She wasn’t sure why she bothered putting them out.

He inserted each nickel slowly. He still wasn’t convinced that he’d made the best choice. Karen was hovering behind him, curiosity etched across her face.

At least she wasn’t suspicious. As far as she knew, everything was fine. A little awkward at times, but otherwise…unchanged. It seemed ridiculous that anyone could possibly remain unaffected after such a drastic year…

But why should anyone else be affected?

It was really just between him and Pam.

And Roy.

And, now, Karen.

He sighed, his finger hovering over the coin return button. His finger descended.

B4.

Very clever, Beesly. But what comes after?

She grabbed the bowl of jelly beans and poured them out onto her desk.

She remembered when those funny-tasting Harry Potter jelly beans came out. The look on Jim’s face when he’d eaten a sardine-flavored bean. Classic.

His face had gone sickly green.

Hers had turned pink with uncontained laughter.

One by one, she sorted the beans on her desk by color, neatly arranging them side by side, tiny-sugared-logo-side up. After sorting them, she arranged the groups according to the rainbow, whispering under her breath, “Roy G. Biv”, to help herself remember.

Like she needed the help.

She always remembered.

The envelope dropped.

Jim reached in for it, his fingers flailing, feeling, finding. He pulled it out slowly, hoping to discourage Karen with his actions.

“Well? What’s it say?”

He swallowed, his tongue thick and swollen in his throat. He peeled open the envelope as normally as possible, and thought frantically for a reasonable explanation.

When he opened the note, all comprehension shut down. He hated that he recognized her writing before he recognized any of the words.

His eyes unfocused, and he pretended to read.

“Oh. It’s just a lousy joke from Steve,” he muttered, hoping he sounded believable.

She was bored.

Between faxes and packages and memos, there really wasn’t much to do.

So she decided to stage a jelly bean war.

She and Jim used to hold extravagant battles on slow days. They’d create tiny arenas out of post-its, and miniature banners with staples and scraps (which they stuck into “spectator beans” inside the arena).

Winner got a grape soda.

She picked up two of the colorful beans on her desk. She squeezed them both between her thumb and forefinger until the pressure caused one of them to break apart.

She figured it was kind of fitting.

She seemed ready to argue, so he took it a step further. He rolled his eyes, crumpled the unread note, and tossed it into the garbage can.

She watched, obviously interested, as the ball slipped downward and into the bin. But, after one last curious look at Jim, she shrugged and walked back to her desk, shaking her head.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to examine the contents of the soda machine.

As soon as she’d busied herself with a sales call, he retrieved the crumpled note and headed for the bathroom.

A sticky wave of multi-colored carnage littered her desk.

Only three beans remained. One blueberry bean, one french vanilla bean, and one orange juice bean.

It was utterly ridiculous, but she couldn’t help herself. She overanalyzed everything, even jelly beans. And right now, she was convinced that the blueberry represented Jim, the french vanilla represented Karen, and the orange juice represented herself.

She sighed down at them.

Between the beautiful and exotic white-speckled bean…and the plain old orange bean…well, there just didn’t seem to be much of a comparison.

She considered squishing Karen Bean with her thumb…

But she didn’t.

“I know what you’re thinking right now.

You think this is revenge.

And you think you deserve it.

You hate yourself.

Your inability to distinguish right from wrong has led to two broken hearts and one victim-to-be.

You try to avoid hurting the one (nearly) innocent person involved by making up for things you haven’t yet done wrong…because you hope that an unfaithful heart can be forgiven (as long as there are no unfaithful bodies).

You think that you can learn to be…satisfied.

(Because you’re sure that you’ll never really be happy.)

She stared at the stupid little beans for an inordinate amount of time.

She couldn’t make them face each other in battle, because she was afraid she would read too much into the outcome.

She couldn’t just squish Karen Bean (as much as she’d like to), because she honestly liked Karen. And even a jelly bean death from another state would make her feel guilty.

But she couldn’t quite bring herself to separate Jim Bean and Pam Bean either.

In the end, she sealed all three of them in an empty push-pin box and hid them in her bottom drawer.

His heart dropped into his shoes with a sickening thud.

He stared at the tiles for so long that the lines separating them blurred away into nothingness, leaving behind a massive neutrality and a cold feeling of infinity.

His brain worked furiously to put distance between the words on the paper and the words he had thought over and over since she’d left…

But they collided anyway, rocking his insides until he had to rush into a stall to wait out the dry heaves.

An eternity later, he staggered back to his desk with the note in his back pocket.

Monday was dull.

She’d spoken to Angela and Dwight over the weekend, getting all of the important details from the latest mission.

Dwight had told her how Jim had tossed the note (no doubt to throw Karen off the scent), but had immediately retrieved it after she’d left the room.

Angela had described his hasty retreat into the bathroom afterward.

And both had mentioned that he’d looked quite shaken when he’d finally returned to his desk.

Pam spent most of the day picturing it all in her head, and wondering how she would have reacted if it had been her.

Monday was hell.

He’d spent most of the weekend with Karen…technically.

Yes, he’d been with her…geographically-speaking….but mentally, he’d been miles away.

Because…while he’d had no real desire to be with Karen, he’d still felt…an obligation. He almost believed that, if he tried hard enough, he could make himself love her.

But wasn’t that exactly what the note had described?

And that sketch (found under the jello again)…

Still…he couldn’t believe that Pam really knew what she was saying. How could she possibly compare their situations? He’d been in love with her for years…surely, she couldn’t say the same.

Could she?

Tuesday swam by.

It was one of her days off, so she had a few weekly classes to attend.

She started with yoga.

She got up early because she liked to be a little groggy before her morning workout. That way, she had little time to think of Jim before she was forced to concentrate on her movements, her posture, the flex of her muscles, and the aching strength her body was growing into.

After yoga, she had a healthy cooking class, and then a small book group for women.

She forced her body to forget Jim whenever she could.

Tuesday inched by.

He’d fought with Karen (again) the night before.

She’d dropped by without calling.

She’d picked up chinese food and water on the way.

She’d made herself comfortable on the couch, her head on his lap.

She’d grabbed the remote and changed the channel without asking.

The presumptions…the premature intimacy…this was why he hadn’t wanted her living so close.

And he’d just lost it.

They’d argued all night (again).

The ridiculous part was…Pam had done all of these things before (when they were “friends”), and he’d thought it was cute. Endearing, even.

So what was wrong with him?

Wednesday was promising.

The work was slightly more challenging than usual, and she enjoyed the chance to exercise some of the organizational techniques she’d been learning in the training program.

She managed to finish an important project with plenty of time to spare, and her boss had complemented her on her efficiency.

She was invited out to lunch with a few of the other administrative assistants from her floor.

But the best part of the day was when Jim called.

He was returning a call to her boss, apparently, but all calls went through her, so…

“Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam.”

Wednesday was horrifying.

He started the day with three unpleasant voicemails.

One from an angry client.

One from Karen.

One from corporate.

The client was angry because he’d received the wrong order, and he was short on supplies. Jim had to spend an hour on the phone with him, eventually three-waying Darryl in to verify that the shipment would be corrected.

Karen had called to say that she wasn’t feeling well, and she was staying home. Probably that night as well.

But the worst part of the day was when he returned the call from corporate.

“Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam.”

The line was silent.

She hated these calls. Either the person realized they had the wrong number or changed their mind about calling. And, rather than politely explaining the situation, they simply hung up, making her feel foolish for having answered in the first place.

She rolled her eyes, and carried out her “empty line sequence”. This was her fallback plan for such instances, a reminder of her days back in the fully-staffed Scranton office. (Nobody would notice here.)

She counted to five silently, nodded twice, “hmm”-ed once, then said, “Of course. Have a nice day,” before hanging up.

Click.

He had no idea what to do. Of all the people he’d imagined answering (he did that as he listened to the phone ring)…Pam had never been a possibility.

He’d imagined a big, stocky man in a pinstripe suit with a fat cigar in his mouth and a frothy mustache, twirled up on the ends.

Or a thin, pinched woman with an ugly blouse (all frilly in the front) and a scratchy wool skirt, her hair up in a severe bun.

But never Pam.

He couldn’t think of anything to say…

Then he heard it. Her “empty line sequence”.

Click.

Almost immediately after she’d hung up, the phone rang again.

Irritated, Pam had a luxurious moment of imagination, wherein she pictured herself throwing the phone across the room, watching it splinter into tiny plastic pieces against the wall.

The moment passed quickly. She answered the phone, dutiful as ever. 

“Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam.”

“Uh…Hey, Pam.”

“Jim?”

Shock set in. He was calling her? Why? Was her plan working that well? Or had everything gone horribly wrong?

“Yeah. Uhm…I’m actually returning a call…”

Right. Of course. He didn’t even know she worked here.

“Oh, sure. Let me see if he’s available.”

The lazy sounds of elevator music piped through the line…she’d put him on hold. He resisted the urge to slap his forehead, and settled instead for rubbing his eyes extra hard with his knuckles.

Could he sound more pathetic?

He desperately hoped that she hadn’t realized he was the one who’d called before. How unbelievably humiliating. He needed whatever time he had left to think of something to say. Should he ask her about the notes and sketches?

The music stopped. “Jim?”

“Yeah?” Ooh, good verbal skills.

“He’s just finishing up some stuff." A pause. "So…how've you been?”

Good question.

He was quiet at first, but after a couple of empty seconds, he finally responded.

“I’ve been…okay. I guess.”

“Just okay? That’s mildly disappointing. I was hoping you’d regale me with tales of your mischievous exploits.” (She tried to keep her tone light, afraid that her curiosity would burn right up her vocal chords and flame out of her mouth.)

“Sorry to disappoint. I’ve been laying kinda low on the Dwight front. He’s been acting a little suspicious lately, and I’m afraid he may be going the way of Andy. I don’t want to break him too soon.”

Pam giggled.

His entire body relaxed a fraction when her whispery giggle came down the line. He almost smiled, but his jaw ached from weeks of clenching it in anger and frustration.

“Good form, Halpert,” she replied. “I’m impressed. Let him get comfortable and then pull the rug right out from under him.”

His voice caught in his throat. Was that her subtle way of acknowledging what she was doing to him? Or was it just an uncomfortable coincidence? He fought for an answer that would suit either possibility, but she interrupted his train wreck of thought.

“So what’ve you got planned?”

She realized her mistake almost immediately. She hoped he didn’t read too much into her verbal *facepalm*, but attempted to cover just in case.

“So what’ve you got planned?” she asked quickly, hoping to reiterate the fact that they were still speaking about Dwight.

A short pause followed. Then, “I don’t know. If you were going to pull the rug out from under some poor, unsuspecting fellow, what would you do?”

The air in her lungs solidified. She hadn’t thought he’d be so…direct about it.

And then she realized that…he was lost.

Her plan was working, after all.

She smiled.

He waited, breathless, for her answer.

“Well…I suppose it depends on the guy.”

Depends on the…what? “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you have to tailor the plot to the victim. If he’s arrogant, make him unsure. If he’s intelligent, prove him wrong. If he’s paranoid, invent a conspiracy. Just pick a characteristic and focus on it.”

He blinked in what seemed like slow motion. It was subtle, but it was there. Her admission.

He steeled himself to call her on it, when she interrupted once again.

“Okay, well…looks like he’s ready for you. Talk to you later, Jim.”

Click.

She immediately transferred him over to her boss, then hung up. She could just picture him…sitting there, slack-jawed and speechless, the phone still smashed up against the side of his confused face.

She twirled her chair around twice (making herself only slightly dizzy), her eyes pinched shut in unexpressed exuberance. She did a quick victory dance in her chair, then settled herself down to finish some work (read: FreeCell).

The feeling of unrelenting freedom and satisfaction in hearing his voice, listening to his words, and knowing that he was affected…it was empowering.

It was almost time for the big guns.

The next few days were uneventful.

He kept waiting for something to happen. Another note, another sketch, another…something to turn his insides out and scramble his brains.

He was trying to work things out with Karen, but his heart just wasn’t in it.

And she knew.

And he knew she knew.

It wasn’t fair to her, and he was painfully aware of that, too. But she wasn’t making any moves to end things, either. And he told himself it was her own fault for wanting to be with him, when he was so obviously not worth it.

Yeah. Her fault.

The next few days were uneventful.

They had a few tests and exams scheduled throughout the last few weeks of the program, and she wanted to do as well as possible, so she studied a lot.

Which meant she was tired a lot.

She’d finally grown used to stretching out in an empty bed, wrapping herself in the strong arms of an electric blanket, and falling asleep to the hum of the streetlamps.

She felt ready.

The last part of her plan, the final steps, were all set. All she had left to do was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

He would never consciously acknowledge it, but when he finally broke things off with Karen…exactly one hundred days had passed since Pam’s declaration.

In the few short months that they had been together, he and Karen had laughed a few times, kissed a few times, and made each other smile a few times, too.

But they had also fought, and argued, and glared at each other, and been suspicious, malicious, and angry hundreds of times over.

The possibility of happiness was simply overshadowed by the inevitability of sadness.

When it was over, neither noticed the other one’s sigh of relief.

It had finally happened.

And the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Once, and only once, she let herself contemplate the fact that it had taken him nearly five times as long as her to come to the right decision.

But then she decided that she was probably just five times smarter than him.

(After all, he’d never even considered the fact that Dwight was acting strangely because he had been in cahoots with Pam all along.)

One day, if everything went well, he may even have to thank Dwight.

She smiled.

That alone would make it all worth it.

It took a full week for Karen’s transfer to go through.

She was understandably upset, but she refused to let it show when she was at work. It would have been unprofessional. So there were no angry outbursts, or sudden bouts of crying, or longing looks across the office.

She worked hard and efficiently. She spoke only to Michael or Toby, and only behind closed doors. She went out for lunch, alone, every day that week.

She didn’t look at him, or speak to him, once.

She got her work done and went home.

The following Monday, she was gone.

She gathered her things and got ready to leave. She stood up, her hands full, and looked around. Her desk was bare, the computer screen dark, her chair pushed right up to the desk.

There was nothing left of her here.

It seemed odd that she could spend four months in a place and not leave a single discernible mark. But then…she had been somewhat preoccupied with making her mark elsewhere.

She smiled and blushed in the empty room.

She turned off the lights and walked to the elevator.

She couldn’t wait to call her mom with the great news.

Every muscle in his body had finally relaxed after Karen’s departure. It was a strange feeling. He hadn’t been aware of the tightness in his limbs until it was no longer there.

(Strange that Karen’s presence had always wound him up, when Pam’s presence had always calmed him.)

He hadn’t realized it, but when he’d ended things with Karen, he’d half-expected Pam to…come back.

He wasn’t sure why. It certainly didn’t make sense.

But then, neither did the green jello mold that he found in his drawer as he prepared to leave that Friday afternoon.

(Jello never really makes sense.)

He would argue at first. She hadn’t given him enough time to really be alone. She justified it by telling herself that he already knew how to be alone. She’d needed that time to herself because she had never just been herself.

She had always been them or us or we.

Now she was just nervous.

This was all she cared about now. The planning, the preparation, the execution…none of it mattered if he simply said no.

Or, “I can’t”.

In just a few hours, she would give him the one thing he had never given her.

A second chance.

He waited until the entire office had emptied out before digging out the note.

When he opened it, there were only five words.

Go to the fax machine. 

He took a deep breath and turned his chair towards reception. Everything was still and silent. He turned back to his desk and carefully lifted out the jello mold. Underneath, he found another sketch. He studied it carefully for a few minutes before delicately slipping it into his messenger bag.

Then he got up, gathered his things, and headed to the fax machine.

There was a fax waiting for him…from Future Jim.

She hoped he could remember the way things used to be.

She remembered the day she’d discovered he was afraid of bees. They’d been walking out together when he’d suddenly spazzed out. He’d hopped around, yanking her arm, his messenger bag flopping about.

A strange wheezy squeak had escaped his lips, and she’d nearly fallen to the ground laughing. When she’d figured out that he was trying to save her from a malicious bee (rather badly), she'd pulled a hairbrush from her bag and swatted the thing until it finally flew away.

She hoped he wouldn’t be afraid this time.

The fax was dated three days ahead, addressed to Past Jim from Future Jim.

It read:

She wondered where he was.

She wondered what choices he had made.

She wondered if she had been wrong all along, or if everything was working out the way she had planned.

She wondered if it was meant to be.

She wondered what he was wearing.

She wondered if he had his sleeves rolled up.

She wondered if his hair had grown out, or if he’d gotten it cut recently.

She wondered how long she would be able to keep from touching him when he showed up.

She wondered if he would show up.

She wondered what he would say.

He shoved the fax into his pocket. He wasn’t doing this.

Then he noticed something in the fax tray. A miniature sketch.

…So maybe he was a little curious. He headed for the parking lot.

It was taped to the wall. Taped underneath was another scrap sketch. He grabbed them both and read the note.

He sighed. Just one more.

As time passed, she began to rationalize. She couldn’t force him to love her. And she couldn’t hate him for moving on.

If he didn’t show up, he didn’t show up. It was a definite possibility, and she’d known that going in.

She had a Plan B all set up in case he did reject her…she just really hoped she wouldn’t need it.

She wanted this to work. She needed this to work. But it all came down to what he wanted…what he needed.

And whatever he decided…she would accept it.

Oh, God. Please don’t let me need Plan B.

Once he got to Chili’s, he wasn’t sure where to go. He looked around outside, but found no notes.

Cautiously, he entered the building. An overenthusiastic young man greeted him inside. “You must be Jim!”

He paused, confused. “Uhm…why?”

The young man grinned and reached under the reservation desk. “This is for you.” He withdrew another note and another small sketch.

Jim sighed and took them.

“Past Jim,

This is it. Last choice.

Are you willing to try again?

Go to where she is. She’s been waiting for you.

Future Jim.”

There were directions on the back. He followed them.

She’d been standing there, waiting for him, all night…and yet, she was surprised when he arrived.

The headlights flashing against the empty walls.

She didn’t understand them.

The footsteps setting a hollow cadence on the front walk.

She didn’t recognize them.

The hesitant knocks thumping inconsistently on the front door.

She didn’t know what to do.

Standing there in the empty hallway, suddenly unsure of herself, she forgot what she had set out to do. She forgot what she wanted to say. She forgot everything except the sound of him waiting outside.

She opened the door and stepped back.

“Jim.”

Driving to the address on the note, parking in the unfamiliar driveway, walking up to the unadorned front porch…he felt like he was dreaming. None of it was real.

The control he held over his own actions and movements was limited. He felt like a passenger in the back seat of his own mind, screaming at the driver to turn left, stop, pull over, slow down…but the driver can’t hear him over the radio and the wind and the fear.

He wanted to leave…but he knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

And then she was there, his name on her lips.

“Jim.”

She stepped aside and he slid past her, careful not to touch her.

She closed the door, leaning against it slightly. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of his presence. She led him into the empty living room.

She faced him, her eyes on the floor. She wanted to look at him. She knew she should. But she couldn’t. “Have you made your choices?” she asked softly.

“I had no choice in this,” he whispered. His voice was choked and frightened and desperate. Just like her. So she looked at him.

“You always have a choice.”

“I can’t…”

She closed her eyes and made herself breathe. “You can’t what?”

His eyes flickered at her, uncertain. “I can’t deal with all of this.”

She shoved her hands into her jeans pockets and smiled sadly. “Yes, you can.”

His voice grated softly with anger. “How would you know?”

“Because I did. And I’ve never been as strong as you.”

She watched as his brief fury deflated, leaving behind the eyes of a confused boy. Her heart swelled and cracked. She’d expected anger. But sadness…it just hurt too much.

She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him, and cried.

“I’m sorry.”

He could feel her body stiffen.

“What?” she said.

He repeated himself. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For what I did to you. I get it now. And I’m sorry.”

He let her step away slowly. She sniffled, embarrassed. “Okay. Wasn’t really expecting that.”

He felt a tear trickle down his cheek and dangle off his chin. He wiped it away and shrugged. “I’m not sorry I did it. But I am sorry that I hurt you. I didn’t know that…” He sighed, shrugged again. “I just didn’t know.”

She nodded and handed him a note. “Last one,” she murmured. “Promise.”

She watched his face, waiting for a reaction, a sign, some insight into what he was thinking. His mouth twisted slightly into an embarrassed grin, somehow managing to be hopeful and hopeless all at once.

He reached out. She set the note on his palm and waited. His hand stayed outstretched, and he began to look confused. What was he doing?

“What?” she asked quietly.

“Where’s my sketch?”

Huh? “Uhm…not really sure what you mean. What sketch?”

“I got a sketch with all the other notes...I just thought…”

“Jim…I didn’t leave any sketches for you. I…oh, eff.”

“What?”

“Freaking Dwight...”

Dwight? Had he just heard her right?

“I’m sorry…you’ve been freaking Dwight? Cuz…kinda gross.”

Her face brightened suddenly, and she giggled.

And then…everything was okay again. He’d made her laugh. He could always make her laugh. He was Jim, and she was Pam, and they were together again. The realization made him smile (despite the disturbing visual in his head).

“No,” she giggled. “Dwight was the one carrying out my little missions. The notes, the pranks, they were all him…he must have…” She trailed off, thinking. “He must have kept that sketchbook…”

“So…you have a whole sketchbook full of these?”

She watched him pull a small stack of sketches, her sketches, from his bag.

One was the back of his neck…soft brown curls just brushing his shirt collar.

One was his forearm resting on his desk…sleeve rolled up, pen balanced between his fingers.

One was his waist…his hands in his pockets, his bag hanging just behind one leg.

One was the profile of his face…his eyes sparkling as he stared off towards the corner of the page.

One was just his mouth…he smiled in that shy, self-deprecating way.

The last one was a dark charcoal of his desk…bare and empty.

He watched her face as she looked them over. She seemed surprised, but…happy. She finally looked up at him and shrugged.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “I do. A few, actually. Spanning almost four years.”

He felt his eyes widen, unable to stop them.

“Four…you mean…all this time?”

She nodded. “Yeah. All this time.”

He smiled, stepping towards her, pulling the sketches from her slightly shaky hands, and tucking them back into his bag. “Well, I don’t know about you, Beesly…but I’m tired of waiting.”

He held his breath, leaning closer, closer…

And cursed aloud when Dwight tumbled through the kitchen window.

Angela charged through the front door seconds later.

“This is completely unacceptable, Dwight! We shouldn’t be here! He could arrive any…” She trailed off, noticing Jim and Pam in the empty living room. “Oh.”

Dwight stumbled in, his hair in disarray, his glasses askew. “Quiet, woman! You’re ruining the mood!” He approached Pam slowly to whisper in her ear. “Have you…” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

She shook her head, smiling, before leaning forward and kissing Jim softly, the last note forgotten.

“Brazen hussy,” an irritated voice whispered.

Jim’s laugh rumbled through her.

“I love you,” they both whispered.

“…Jinx!”