You don’t remember the first time Pamela Beesley broke your heart or how many times she has.

All you know is that’s all she seems to do anymore. With a smile or a laugh, reminding you that she’s not yours and she’ll never be. Or each time she stares or holds or kisses the man she truly belongs to. Each moment the sparkle on the diamond of her left hand shines in your eye. You know, you remember, and your heart breaks again. Over and over until you wonder if there’s a single piece of your heart left.

And then she’ll look at you, in that way that only she can, and you fall more, harder, longer and you tell yourself that she’s worth every single fracture that you endure.

Today is no different, you quickly realize.

She sits at her desk, staring up at you with those gorgeous eyes. You lean over her desk, needing to be as close as possible, the distance eating away at you. Your hands are close to her face, even closer to her hands, gently and involuntarily brushing against the back of hers. Your voice is low, a whisper, almost like you’re telling her a secret nobody knows in the world. But that secret, the one that’s buried in your heart, never passes your lips.

You ask her as nonchalantly as you can with your heart beating against your chest if she likes to go out for drinks after work. You tell her about end of the week drinks and you’re almost positive you stopped breathing for an instant when she quickly asks when you’re going out. Tonight, you tell her tonight, because tonight you’ll tell her. Tonight, she’ll be yours.

Then, the door opens.

You know it’s him before you ever look. She backs away slightly, and you stand up straight then. The closeness gone, the moment passing, the distance again.

You remain civil, greeting him, wondering how on earth you can be so jealous of a man like Roy. You lean back against the desk on your elbow, remaining silent as she asks his permission to go out after work. Your fingers tap nervously against the top of the desk, and you know his answer by his hesitation. He just wants them to go home. Go home. Together. Alone. Your head falls, your heart cracks. She’s not yours. You fix your tie, trying to distract yourself from the pain as she agrees to her fiancee’s demands. She starts to make excuses, fidgeting, saying something about faxes, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand to stop yourself from saying something to her, to him. She stands then, and you can no longer look her in the eye. She walks away silently and you can’t help yourself from watching her as she slips past you.

And then you’re alone. With him. With the guy she goes home to every night.

You even try to convince him to come along for drinks tonight, hoping that maybe, even if he’s there, you’ll get a moment alone with her. You play with your tie, a lump building up in your throat as he shakes his head at you. And you know, before he ever says it, that he’s not coming tonight and if he’s not going, Pam is most definitely not going.

A silence falls between the two of you, an uncomfortable, awkward, terrible silence. Both of you, two feet apart, your hearts belonging to the same woman. You stand there, scratching your chin, wondering what the hell Roy could possibly have that you don’t. You try to start a conversation again to stop your mind from wandering into unknown areas, but he wants no part of it or you. He grumbles that you tell his fiancee that he’ll be waiting in the car and you agree. You agree because he’s her fiancee. He walks out the door, but you remain at her desk, unable to move her, stuck just as badly as your heart is on her. You look behind you, hoping to see her there, but she’s not.

It feels like hours before you head back to your desk, surrounding your mind in work that doesn’t even exist. The rest of the office leaves, heading out for a drink that you no longer want but still desperately need. You let yourself become so enraptured in a swarm of papers on your desk that you hardly hear her walk up behind you. You turn your chair around so fast to look at her that you make yourself dizzy. Or maybe it’s she that makes you dizzy. For a second, as your eyes land on her, you think she might have been crying. Her arms are protectively wrapped around her torso, one hand casually swiping at her face. You ask how she is immediately, but she quickly interrupts, wondering why you hadn’t gone out for that drink you’d wanted only a little while ago. But you don’t have an answer to give her. You can’t tell her that you don’t want to go because she’s not there, you can’t because she’s not yours.

You switch topics. You ask her how her headache is, and when she says its better, you don’t believe her. You tear your eyes away, back to your desk, that tightness filling your chest again. But then she’s asking you something and she can’t get it out, can’t form the words, something about walking out. Together? And then you’re laughing with her, a big full smile bouncing from your lips to hers. And a lightness fills your heart, even though you can see she’s sad, broken at best, she still wants to walk out with you. It feels great, wonderful, to be needed even if its small. You turn back to your desk, hoping to tidy up as quick as possibly, before you can head out with her, together, pretending to yourself that she’s coming home with you.

Then, the horn beeps.

And she’s walking away from you, telling you to have a great weekend as you fall back into your chair from emotional exhaustion, only able to wave and stare as she grabs her coat and walks out the door, away from you, and right back to him.

You sit there, for a while, your hand against the back of her head in utter amazement, that for all the times she walks away and breaks your heart, you love her that much more.