Um, here's chapter two. Hopefully chapter 3 will be along shortly. Oh, by the way, the title of chapter one, Pravda, is the Russian word for truth. So I'm told. The title of this chapter, Aspiro, is in Latin 'to breathe' or 'to infuse spirit.' Sorry if I got any of that wrong. Anyway... thanks so much for reading, and for those of you that did, thanks for reviewing. Much love.

I still don't own the Office. How about that?

Jim's hand was running through his unruly hair as he opened the door, and Pam found herself wishing that she could freeze time so that she could capture the moment on paper. That she could draw the strong features of his face, the expression of utter shock that rested there. That she could commit the long lines of his fingers to paper, the way one hand was frozen at the door and the other was stalled in his mop of hair. More than anything, she wanted to draw his eyes, so expressive and alive, engaging hers in a silent conversation.

The silence was thick between them. She was first to break it, asking, "Can I come in?" Jim said nothing, just stepped back from the door to allow her room to enter.

Stepping into his home, Pam found she was struck with how utterly... Jim the room was. It seemed like a place fit for Jim, so comfortable and inviting, safe. It smelled like him, and she welcomed it, moving further into the room to take a better look around.

The sound of the door closing startled her; she turned and met Jim's eyes, those expressive, deep eyes. She took him in, standing before her in ratty sweatpants and an old fitted t-shirt, barefoot, hair disheveled.

He was absolutely breathtaking.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Pam was first to break the silence. "I know it's late, and I'm sorry... actually, I'm not." She smiled, nervous, but took a breath and continued. "I needed to talk to you and... can we sit down?"

Jim looked absolutely confused, but he led her into his living room where Conan O'Brien was playing softly on the TV. He turned the set off and took a seat on the couch, motioning for her to sit next to her. When he spoke, he sounded nervous, apprehensive. "Um, so what's up?"

"I had... an epiphany of sorts about a week ago," she began, figuring it was best to jump right in. "I had my art show, you know? Well, maybe three people came, and - "

"You had an art show?" he interrupted. "When?"

She was genuinely shocked - she had thought he'd known all along, had just decided not to come. "It was about a week and a half ago... I put a few flyers up around the office..."

He dropped his head. "I'm sorry, Pam. If I'd have known, I would have - "

"It's ok." Pam smiled, trying to let him know that it really was ok. "That's not why I'm here. Well... sort of. So at my show, only a few people stopped to look at my work. And I overheard someone say that the art I chose to show lacked courage and honesty."

He looked angry, started to speak, but she continued. "And they were right. I didn't realize it before... but it's true. Anyway. I went to my art class a few days later, and my teacher could tell I was upset. He... well he said a lot of things, but he basically told me to let go." A soft grin played on her face. "Easier said than done, right?"

He said nothing, but gave her a small, knowing smile. She reached for her bag, and pulled out her old sketchbook. "He gave me this... said he'd marked the pages that he had found inspired. Thus the basis of my epiphany."

"What?"

Scooting over closer to him on the couch, she opened to the first marked page: the charcoal drawing of Jim's hands. She fingered the paper gently, looked at him pointedly, and then turned the page. Next was the image of himself smiling up at them. Wordlessly, she continued to flip through the pages, watching his reaction: she was again affected by the sketch of him on the Booze cruise, but as she glanced over at Jim, she found that he was as well; he laughed at the painting of Dwight's stapler; a small smile came onto his face when she turned to the oil pastel rendering of her teapot.

She took a breath and turned to the final page. "This is the one that really... showed me what I already knew," she admitted quietly, looking down at the paper.

Jim took the book out of her hands, softly touching the page. She could see his eyes welling up at the sight of them embracing in the office, and she began to tear, too. "Jim, it was right there in front of me for so long... so damn long. I saw it all along, but I just couldn't admit it to myself," Pam said, regret seeping into her voice. "God... I was just so scared Jim, was still so scared, even after I called off the wedding, after you came back... the sketchbook? It made me see that I did have the courage, the honesty..." She finally looked over at him. "But you are why I have those things."

"Pam..." Jim was still looking down at the drawing, his voice husky and so full of emotion.

"No, Jim, please... let me finish?" She pulled out her new sketchbook, set it on her lap. "You make everything so real. You inspire me to be so much more than I am. You always have. And I'm so sorry that I was too scared to admit that to myself before. I'm sorry that I settled. I'm sorry that I hurt you, Jim."

He looked up at her, his eyes shining in the soft light of his living room. His gaze suddenly too intense, Pam looked down at her lap. When she spoke, her voice was low, steady. "All this week, I've had to take this new sketchbook with me wherever I went. Everywhere I went, I would think of you, remember something we did, some time I was happy, we were happy... when we were Pam and Jim... and sometimes not. But mostly I was hit with all of the great memories."

She opened the sketchbook to the first page, and despite the heaviness of the situation, Jim couldn't help laughing. "I was at the grocery store, to buy a new sketchbook? I just wanted something cheap, to last until I could find something decent," she explained absently. "And all of a sudden someone called for a price check on... God, I don't know. It doesn't matter." She laughed, blushing. "But it made me think... you remember that time when we ditched work and went to make Kevin a care package? And you made me hijack the loudspeaker?"

Jim chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair, and gently teased, "I didn't make you do anything, Beesley. It isn't my fault you can't act your age."

They both laughed quietly and looked down at the page, a oil pastel drawing of Pam at the checkout counter with Jim egging her on, watching her with an amused, adoring look on his face.

She turned a few pages, past pictures of Dwight with blonde hair and a vending machine filled with his belongings, and took a deep breath to give herself the courage to continue. "I think this sums up where we are now, doesn't it."

It was a statement, not a question, and she could tell that he agreed with her.

On the paper was a detailed sketch of Jim at his old desk, looking over at her with him trademark smirk and eyebrow raise; next to it, a darker image of Jim's back in his new desk, his back to her... but she knew that he realized that this sketch was just as detailed as the first, an exact rendering of his lean back, his broad shoulders, his long, messy hair...

"This was kind of a segue... when I started to get hit with things more recent, you know?" Pam smiled, sad, then turned the page, but the smile immediately left her face when she remembered which image came next.

It was Jim and Karen. Dancing together at Phyllis' wedding. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about the image, nothing particularly visionary. Just two lovely young people enjoying a dance at a wedding. Pam could tell, however, that he wasn't just glancing at the picture.

"I know you think that I don't see you, Jim... believe me, I see you," she breathed heavily. "I always have, but now... god, Jim, how did you do this for three years? How did you ignore it, ignore this?" she asked impatiently, pointing down to the sketchbook.

Pam knew that he understood what she was referring to. The only thing out of the ordinary in the picture was the man. Jim. He wasn't looking down at Karen, the woman in his arms; he was looking out with so much passion and undisguised desire that she thought the paper might burst into flames. The fact that Pam knew he was looking directly at her... like that... it made her cheeks flush with warmth.

"How did you do it?" she asked again, quieter, almost pleading. "How did you watch me with him when you knew it was wrong for me to be with him, when you knew that you loved me? I mean..." she faltered, desperate now. "I need to know how to do this, Jim, how to ignore it, because I can't keep seeing this," she shook the book in her hands, "and pretend that it doesn't kill me. I can't keep doing this," Pam flipped to the sketch of Dwight's red ‘CONFIDENTIAL' file folder, "and pretend that we're just friends. I can't do it, Jim!"

She set the sketchbook down on the couch next to him and stood, pacing the unfamiliar territory, needing the room to breathe. Suddenly, she stilled and turned to look at him, eyes wild but so tired, a few stray tears running down her flushed cheeks. "I'm so sorry that I did this to you, Jim. I'm so sorry that I was too afraid to... god, I don't know... to live."

Though stunned by her outburst, Jim finally found his voice for the first time in a long while. "Pam." She turned away, embarrassed, trying to brush away her tears, so he stood and crossed over to her. "Pam." It was more forceful, and his hand on her arm made her turn to look at him.

His fingers found their way into her hair, his thumb caressing her tears away. He forced her to look up at him, his own eyes bright with unshed tears, and he said, "Show me more."

So, probably one more chapter... hopefully coming soon... thanks so much for the great feedback.