Chapter Four: Days Go By

So all the memories fade
And the days go by
Forget the lonely yesterdays in mind
I know it's never gonna be the way you like
I know you don't wanna think about the endlessness you find
You wait forever blind

~Lifehouse, Days Go By

            Jim remembers when time moved like this.  Back in his first few years, before Pam started.  When each day passed with agonizing slowness, when every day in the office was a burden, when no change or future was visible.  When there was nothing to look forward to.

            It's so stupid.  He has a girlfriend; there's future there.  He's rising in the company, so there's future there.  Yet none of these futures have much appeal to Jim.

            The difference, really, isn't so much of the lack of future; it's the lack of hope.  There is nothing he desires, nothing to strive for.  No longing. 

            Instead, Jim's left with a horribly constant feeling of numbness, as if every energetic, vibrant part of his body has died, and he's slowly discovering that neutrality is a shitty place to be.

            Well congratulations, dumbass.  Jim thinks bitterly.  You wanted to fall out of love with Pam...you got it.

            The problem is, that loving Pam had become such a part of Jim that, when it was gone, he'd lost a big part of himself.  He'd had to completely change every thing to get over her.

            He loses track of how many days it's been since that day on the roof, how many days since Pam stopped trying to make him smile in the office.  Part of this new way that time moves seems to be that every day is unconnected to the days past or coming.  He has nothing to remember fondly or to look forward to.  Each day is simply one of those days, where nothing goes especially wrong but nothing goes right, either.

            It can't be more than a week since the conversation, though, when he begins to realize how much he's missing. 

He misses the guy who'd spent his days in the office cheerfully mocking the dullness of his job (this was back when it was just a job, back when he would have thrown himself in front of train rather than make it a career) or trying to think of complicated pranks to amuse himself, when all the while he really just wanted to see Pam laugh, maybe even look at him like she thought he was the greatest thing ever.

He misses the unbelievably light feeling he'd gotten when she smiled at him, or hugged him, or gave her one of the looks only the two of them would understand.  He misses the special moments that kept him going, like on Diversity Day when she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder, or the way he'd held her hand at the ice rink, or the kiss at the Dundies.

He misses falling in love with her during thousands of moments, special or commonplace.  The sly look in her eyes when she came up with an aspect of a prank, or the half-amused, half-gentle expression she'd use with Michael during one of his moments of crisis, or the nervous pride that had been evident in her face when she spoke about her work.

And though he'd have thought it was impossible, he slowly begins to miss the stabs of pain that overtook him when he'd see her with Roy, whether the two were sharing a genuinely happy moment or if Roy was putting her down, as was more often the case.  He misses the sick feeling that would overtake him when a wedding was mentioned.

As crazy as it sounds, he really does miss it all.  Because that had been better than being numb.  Now, he barely feels alive in the real sense of the word. 

He tries to recapture parts of himself that have died.  He impulsively presses the button for grape soda one day from a vending machine, and ever since drinks them exclusively again. 

A few days after that (a few weeks?)  he begins making ham and cheese sandwiches in the mornings again, and on the few times Karen persuades him to leave the office for lunch, he orders the familiar meal.

He begins pushing up his shirt sleeves a few days after that.  His next step, however, is unsuccessful; he spends two consecutive days trying to mastermind a new prank on Dwight, or even Andy, but nothing comes to mind that hasn't been done.

One thing that infuriates Jim, however, is the way Karen doesn't seem to notice the change.  She seems happy about the fact that she no longer feels "obligated" to throw him suspicious looks whenever he nears reception.  She doesn't notice the desperate attempts he makes to return to old habits; nor does she seem to mind that he's no longer bothered to make her laugh, or that he doesn't respond to her own prank ideas or one liners. All she seems to care about is that he no longer shoots not-so-subtle gazes toward the reception desk, or that Pam no longer gives him a different sort of smile than everyone else.

Karen doesn't notice what he's lost so that all of that can happen.

*  *  *  *  *

            Pam remembers when time moved like this.  Back several months ago, when Jim was in Connecticut.  When each day passed with agonizing slowness, when every day in the office was a burden, when no change or future was visible.  When there was nothing to look forward to.

             It's so stupid.  He always had a girlfriend, even when he came back.  Nothing's really changed except for that her greatest fear-him being over it-has been verbalized.  Twice.

            The difference, really, isn't so much the sudden clarity; it's the last severing of any strand of hope.  There is no longer even a tiny part of her that believes in change.  Nothing with which to fool herself with. 

            Instead, Pam's left with a horribly constant feeling of despair and agony, as if every happy, optimistic part of her body has died, and she's quickly discovering that heartbroken is a lonely state to be in.

Well congratulations, genius.  Pam thinks miserably.  You wanted to be honest and tell Jim the truth...you got it.

The problem is, that loving Jim has become such a part of Pam that, when he came back, she'd convinced herself that things would be okay.  She'd had to believe that a happy ending was coming, that every thing would work out perfectly.

She knows exactly how long it's been since that day on the roof, how many days since she'd given up trying to coax a smile out of Jim.  Part of this new way that time moves seems to be that, every day, the days past are painfully present in her mind, so that every day the loss becomes heavier.  She has to remember every painful, empty second and is aware of every painful, empty second that's coming.  Each day will be just like the others, when nothing will change, no earth shattering event will take place to spin things around.

It barely takes a day after the conversation when she begins to realize how much she's missing.

She misses the girl who'd spent her mornings (especially right after he'd come back) eagerly waking up or painstakingly picking out an outfit that looked good but not like she was trying too hard to be different from usual, when all the while she really just wanted to see Jim give her an approving smile, maybe even lean on her desk and look at her like he though she was the greatest thing ever.

She misses the unbelievably light feeling she'd gotten when he smiled at her, or hugged her, or gave her one of the Jim looks that she secretly hoped Karen didn't understand.  She misses the special moments that made her think that maybe he hadn't changed as much as he said, like during his first week when he'd sent Andy to her on a prank that proved how knowledgeable he still was about her, or the way he'd slipped back into his conspiring ways at the end of the Christmas Part, or the laughs they'd shared the day of Oscar's welcome back party.

She misses letting herself fall in love with him during thousands of moments, special or commonplace, back when it didn't hurt and she didn't try to guard herself.  The sly look in his eyes when he came up with even a tiny prank, or the fondly amused expression he'd use with Michael during one of his moments of "brilliance".

And though she'd have thought it was impossible, she slowly begins to miss the lingering emptiness that overtook her when he had been in Connecticut, whether she'd heard something of him from Michael or heard nothing of or from him from weeks, as was more often the case.  She misses the sickening regret that would overtake her when she thought of a prank he'd love, or when she'd glance over at his desk to see Ryan there.

            As crazy as it sounds, she really does miss it all.  Because that had been better than this raw, all consuming pain that would never go away.  Now, it's always worsened by just the sight of him, or whenever she sees him with Karen.

She can't help but watch him though, even though she'd love to go back to when she could at least go five minutes of a time without thinking of him.  But she watches him, and soon she begins to notice things, things that once, just a week or two ago, would have filled her with hope but now are only passing observations, that occasionally allow her to feel a small, bittersweet stab of regret and nostalgia for the way it was.

            She notices when he starts drinking grape soda again, and at first she's sure it won't last, but it seems to be exclusive.

            Two days after the first grape soda, she notices as he unwraps ham and cheese sandwiches in the breakroom again.

            Three days after that, she notices his shirt sleeves are pushed up again.  She tries, unsuccessfully, to let herself feel some flicker of hope.  Maybe this signals the end of his evolution.  But she can't even convince herself; he'd been pretty clear.  Because for all the ways he's going back to normal, something else is off.  He no longer pranks Dwight or Andy; even his dry comments and amused glances at the camera are few and far between.  He doesn't seem like himself.

One thing that doesn't escape Pam's notice is the way Karen, at least, is one step of his "evolution" that Jim doesn't go back.  Karen is obviously happier in the relationship now that she no longer has to watch for Jim going over to reception.  Their relationship does not seem changed as Jim returns to old habits; nor does she seem any unhappier with him as he stops making the office a fun place to be.  It would make sense, of course, that their relationship would stay strong now that Jim no longer wants to shoot gazes at Pam's desk, or that Pam now puts all her energy into not giving him a different sort of smile than everyone else.

            It would make sense, but Pam notices it, and it serves as a constant reminder of every thing she's lost.