I’m not sure why I’m here.

Probably because I’d hoped to see you. Maybe partially because I’d hoped I wouldn’t. If that means anything to begin with.

I try and blend in with the crowd, which comes easily enough to me. I’m not sure you want you to see me there, but then again, I’m not sure I want to be seen.

There are people all crowded around you, like you’re some missing prodigy. I hear you telling one (maybe all) of them that you’ve finally had your “breakthrough.” Part of me wishes that it’s because of me, part of me thinks that that sounds pretty selfish.

I would never claim to be one that understands art, but the canvases behind you may as well be in my eyes, and the buzz surrounding you tells me that others think so too. At the same time, I can’t help but hope that those canvases are the reason that they’ve noticed you now, not the cameras.

I take a chance, moving closer to the paintings, but you’re distracted anyway. I can recognize myself immediately, splayed in oil paint across a canvas. There’s a sentence near the base of the painting and I can’t help but wonder if you’re being cruel.

something told me we'd be happy forever, I don't see how this could change any of that, I will follow your ghost as it climbs up the rock-face

I’ve always thought that there is something very hollow sounding about the word forever. What actually lasts forever? Probably not much, if forever even exists in the first place.

I have long ago come to terms with the fact that there is one and only one appropriate use for the word, and that’s only in that slow-motion, broken syllable, Sandlot way.

For-eh-ver…For—eh—ver…

I’m pretty sure I’ve told you this before, and I’m pretty sure that you'd remember.

I’ve wished before that I could take back the past few years, but never so much as I do right now, watching you with art critics and overly-pompous aficionados. I wish our lives hadn’t become a lie, a joke, a bad punch-line on Leno.

I’ve wished that Michael never agreed to do that documentary, that no one had ever found it interesting enough to watch, that some big studio hadn’t bought the show and decided to turn us all into actors in our own lives with new contracts. Ones with “confidentiality clause” and “media discretion” in big bold letters that asked me to sign my name three times at the bottom.

I’ll never forget the day we had that meeting about the “direction” our show was taking, and about where they wanted our lives to go.

“We’re merging Stamford and Scranton,” the executive told us. They wanted us to act. Apparently no one was interested in our real lives any longer, they wanted a show. They wanted Jim and Pam. They wanted a hit.

Apparently, viewers never wanted to see what actually happens in our lives, they just wanted to think they were seeing reality. As long as the reality is entertaining.

At first I maybe didn’t mind, hell, I had my own trailer. But it wasn’t long before I began to wonder how long they could keep this charade up, knowing that we would probably be the ones that pay the price for it in the end.

I still remember the day I walked into my trailer, after hours of filming, and you were curled up on the sofa-bed that I liked to take naps in on particularly long days.

We were awkward around one another, we always had been, but now it was awkward in the way that we were both single, unattached people pretending to be dating other people on a non-reality, reality show. It was complicated to say the least.

You just wanted to get away, and my trailer was easiest at the time (at least that’s what you told me). I offered to make you tea, but the water wasn’t even boiling before your hands were in my hair. Maybe you were desperate, maybe I was lonely, but at that moment I realized why every man in the office seemed to be at least a little bit in love with you.

Your visits were a daily occurrence after that afternoon, I’d come off set and find you waiting for me (sometimes clothed, sometimes not).

I’d say “Pam” a little too loudly and you’d clamp a hand across my mouth. You’d giggle when I touched you, but you were always so aware of the volume. I always seemed to want to get caught, you never wanted the same.

I tried not to stare at you on set. I was supposed to be interested (maybe in love) with someone else. I was supposed to act, but I’m a terrible actor.

“Tea?” I asked one afternoon and you nodded, stretching your fair skin against the white sheets.

“Don’t get dressed,” I winked at you, but pulled on a pair of boxers just in case someone were to walk in.

“Pam, you want green or Earl Grey?” I asked.

“Green,” you smiled back. “And then I want you back in bed.”

“Not a problem,” I whistled more to myself than anything.

The door opened without so much as a knock.

“Hey, Ryan?”

You scrambled to cover yourself in linens. Now your fair skin was a bright red.

Jim stood in the doorway like he was too shocked to move, his mouth hanging open and for a second I wished I could just chuck that boiling water at him just to get him to leave.

He fumbled over his words, saying that I was needed on the set. He tried not to look at you, but he wasn’t a great actor either.

He was gone as quickly as he had come and you scrambled to put your clothes on, rushing to the door, calling his name.

“Pam,” I said softly, holding out the tea to you as you stood frozen in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Ryan.”

That may have been the last time you spoke to me directly. On set you were "back with Roy," off-set you were with Jim. Off-set, Kelly had dumped me a long time ago.

I'm so tired of pretending.

You were on Conan last night, that’s how I found out about the art show. You never bothered to tell me, and now that I’m here, getting elbowed by strangers who are straining to talk to you, a part of me wishes that I hadn’t come at all.

“Pam!”

It’s easy to spot Jim in a crowd, he’s not much one for blending in.

He pushes his way through the crowd and you kiss him, presenting your artwork to him with a flourish of pride. He’s got his hand on your back and I wish I had that water again.

I can’t really hear what you’re saying, but I can tell which canvas he’s staring at, his eyebrows scrunched up in that way that he usually only reserves for the cameras.

You look like you’re unsure what to say when he turns to you with that question in his eyes. It’s not really mistakable and I can’t help but wonder what you’ll say, how you’ll explain. If it wasn’t so obvious I’d second guess it myself, but there’s one undeniable fact about your painting:

Jim’s eyes aren’t blue.

He looks like he's been blind-sided by a bus, you're staring at your tennis shoes. I could leave, walk away and pretend I had never been here, but instead I take a breath, swallow my pride, and push my way towards you.

Maybe part of me is just hoping that maybe there's something to 'forever' after all.