She sat staring blankly at Michael’s office door, hearing only muffled words, Jan’s voice occasionally growing louder as she clearly tried to talk over Michael.  Jan had actually gone to the trouble of scheduling a meeting with him, which struck Pam as odd – usually, she just showed up – and they’d been in there with the door closed, blinds drawn, for almost an hour.  Jan had even insisted that the cameraman remove all the mikes in Michael’s office, giving him a look that immediately silenced him when Michael tried to protest.  

She wondered dully what was going on, what the big secret was.  Maybe they were being downsized after all…..  Strangely, the thought didn’t even upset her or jar her or anything; in fact, the notion of finally being forced to leave this place brought a strange sense of relief.  She hadn’t been able to bring herself to leave of her own volition, but walking into this office every morning for the past three and a half months had been sheer hell, because there were reminders everywhere; his presence was all over that office, which only made the fact that he was really gone seem that much harder to take.  

At first, it had honestly felt like someone had died; she’d been absolutely grief stricken, numb and introspective but prone to tears at the most unexpected moments. Like when Dwight had cleaned out the refrigerator: Pam had been unfortunate enough to wander in while he was in the midst of it, muttering angrily to himself as he threw one thing after another in the garbage.  He’d found a Tupperware container, opening it to sniff at it suspiciously, then had demanded, “Pam, is this your grilled cheese sandwich?” The question, of course, brought to mind that night on the roof, when Jim had made grilled cheese sandwiches for her, presenting them to her proudly…back when she’d had the luxury of seeing his face every day, back before she’d been reduced to wishing desperately that she could hear his laugh just one more time.  

She’d taken one look at that grilled cheese sandwich and burst into tears, while Dwight had stood staring at her, baffled.   

And then there were the more…expected moments when the tears had come.  She’d been in the break room late one afternoon about seven weeks after he’d gone. Michael and Dwight were in a meeting with accounting, while Meredith was out sick.  Stanley had taken his daughter to the dentist, and Toby was at corporate for the day.  Ryan was sitting at his desk, ear buds in as he listened to something on his ipod. So she’d snuck away from her desk and gone to sit in the break room just to get a reprieve from staring at that fucking empty chair that seemed to taunt her.   

Phyllis had come in and had been startled to see her sitting there.  She hadn’t said anything at first, then had poured herself a cup of coffee before she came to sit at the table next to Pam.  Pam glanced up at her, gave her a wan smile.  Then Phyllis had asked gently, innocently, “Do you miss Jim a lot?” 

Pam wasn’t sure whether it was the tone in Phyllis’s voice – so cautious, so kind – or whether it was the question itself, so unexpected and direct, but before she could stop herself, she’d nodded, her face crumpling as she started to cry.   

“Oh dear…I’m sorry, Pam; I didn’t mean to…” Phyllis looked as if she felt terribly guilty, but Pam had shaken her head, unable to talk for a second. 

Then she choked out, “No, it’s okay; it’s not your fault, really….”   

She’d excused herself then, going into the bathroom where she locked herself in a stall and cried, arms wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth.   

Three and a half months it had been since the last time she’d seen him, his last day at work truly horrible, nightmarish in her memory.  It had only been a week after Casino Night, and she still hadn’t had time to even absorb the shock of the news that he was transferring – for that matter, she still hadn’t been able to truly grasp the reality of the fact that he’d admitted he was in love with her, that he’d kissed her, that she’d kissed him back…then rejected him again.      

She could still hear his voice so clearly in her head, the way he’d spoken barely above a whisper but with such conviction, almost wincing as he said, “I’m in love with you.”   

He had sounded almost as if the words themselves burned him in their intensity. 

It didn’t seem fair that she still wasn’t able to forget the look on his face when she’d been so cruel, when she’d lied to him and said, “I’m really sorry…if you misinterpreted things.  It’s probably my fault.” 

Worst of all, she knew she’d never forget the sight of him standing in front of her with tears welling in his eyes – Jim, the prankster who was usually so full of mischief, standing there looking shattered, devastated – the helplessness she’d felt when she’d seen that lone tear stream down his cheek. 

And that panic that had gripped her as he’d walked away. It had been like she was ensnared in one of those awful dreams: She’d wanted so badly to call out after him, to turn and chase him, grab him by the hand, take it all back, but she’d felt frozen, rooted to the spot, unable to move, think, breathe. And when he’d kissed her – god, she’d known as soon as his lips touched hers that nothing would ever be the same again, no matter what, and the realization was nothing short of terrifying. 

She knew when she allowed herself to let go, her hands stealing up into his hair as she kissed him back, that her actions were betraying the fact that yes, she’d looked him right in the eye out in that parking lot and lied.  She remembered so well her train of thought when his lips touched hers: Shock, utter shock, then a trembling weakness that spread throughout her limbs, originating from somewhere deep, low in her belly; more shock at the realization that these were Jim’s lips on hers – not Roy’s – and that she found herself wanting him with a sudden desire that frightened her in its intensity.  

Then she’d thought: Just once…just to kiss him once.  We’ve already crossed so many lines tonight; why not one more?  Just once…. 

So she’d allowed herself to let go, her hands moving into his hair (it was just as soft as she’d always imagined it would be – deep, deep in that unconscious part of herself that she refused to acknowledge), lips meeting his the next time he kissed her.  She’d felt the tremor in him when she responded, and she realized instantly that she had made a mistake, that she never should have kissed him back. Because she wasn’t strong enough to take the leap, to face what she was feeling for him – not just yet.  Because it was too terrifying, the way that he had looked at her afterward, his chest rising and falling as he looked stunned, dazed…. 

Because he represented the unknown, and Roy represented stability, predictability…safety.   

But the biggest reason kissing him back had been such a grave mistake was that in doing so, she’d hurt him again – hurt him worse than she had the first time out in the parking lot.   

They’d stared at one another silently for a few long minutes, both breathing heavily, and then she’d whispered, “I’m sorry, Jim.” 

He couldn’t speak for a moment, then swallowed hard and asked in a hoarse voice, “Why?” 

She blinked several times, hoping the tears wouldn’t fall, then shaking her head when they finally did, pulling back when Jim reached a hand out to touch her cheek.  Oh, the look on his face when she’d done that, when she’d shrunk away from his touch even though it was the last thing she wanted to do…. 

She’d finally forced herself to whisper, “I can’t” one last time before she turned and ran out of the office, ran all the way down the stairs, scared to take the elevator because she was afraid he’d come after her – and she wasn’t sure that she could tell him no again.  Because she didn’t want to tell him no, knew on some instinctive level even as she ran from him that she was in love with him, that this was well beyond her control.  

If he had tried to chase after her, she wasn’t aware of it.  

She’d slept on the couch that night; Roy was already asleep when she got home, and as she gazed down at him, his curly hair a little damp, dimples relaxed in sleep, she felt a wave of guilt sweep over her.  He was a good man, a decent man, and he didn’t deserve this.  

She wanted to call in sick to work the next day, but she didn’t – only because she knew she’d have to face Jim sometime.  She rehearsed what she’d say to him in her head on the way to work, her plan centering on telling him that, in the interest of their friendship – which was the most important thing in the world to her, to them both she knew – they had to just forget that the night before had ever happened: the confession, the kiss, all of it.  Just forget it and go back to the way things had been before.  She’d known even as she planned it how cowardly it was of her, how cruel to ask him to do such a thing, but she still felt immobilized by that irrational fear. 

 And she also knew that Jim would do anything for her. 

He was already there when she got to work, standing in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee, dark circles under his eyes, hair even more tousled than usual.  She glanced around the office – only Toby, Ryan, and Stanley were there that early – so she deemed it safe enough to go to the kitchen, saying his name softly as the door closed behind her. 

He looked startled, then she could see the anxiety settle over his features, intermingled with a deep, profound sadness and disillusionment. She was reminded suddenly of what it had felt like to have his lips on hers, his arms around her, and she pretended that the memory – the knowledge – didn’t leave her feeling weak, sort of breathless with the realization that his relatively chaste kisses had left her aching with a desire she’d never even come close to feeling before. 

“Listen, Jim…” She prayed she could get through what she was about to say, told herself that she would just have to get through it – it was either that or lose their friendship, and the very thought made her feel sick inside. On some guttural, purely instinctive level, she knew that she’d never again be able to fool herself into believing that she was “just friends” with him.  The feel of his chest, surprisingly sturdy beneath her hands as she gently pushed him away from her, drove her to distraction even as she looked at him and said the things she believed she ought to say but really didn’t mean. 

“About last night….” She took a deep breath, then raised her eyes to his. 

He was watching her closely, looking almost like he might cry, but at the same time, there was the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes, as if he thought she might tell him that she’d changed her mind. 

“Look, all we can do ---“  That wasn’t the way she’d intended to start, so she tried again.  “I just….  Let’s just forget about last night – all of it.  I’m just going to forget what you told me, forget what happened after…. I mean, we have to.” 

He looked stunned again, as if she’d slapped his face, and for some reason, she’d been caught off guard.  Did he really believe that they could possibly do it any other way if they were going to maintain the friendship? He was silent for a few minutes, and even as she watched his expression, she saw that the shock and the sadness seemed to be fading into bitterness…and anger?

She doubted it, because she’d never really seen Jim lose his temper before.  But then he spoke, his voice cold, flat, bitter…horrible. “Doesn’t matter.” He said, then, his eyes on the floor, “I’m transferring to the Stamford branch next week.” 

Now it was her turn to be stunned, her throat constricting, stomach falling.  “What?” She’d asked, unable to say anything else. 

His eyes had met hers but only for a moment; he’d quickly looked away, as if he couldn’t handle looking at her face, seeing the stricken expression she wore.   

Then he murmured, “It doesn’t matter anymore; I’m leaving.”  He’d walked out of the break room then, leaving her standing there feeling shattered.  

She wanted to follow him, to ask him why, to beg him not to go…but she couldn’t.  She knew she was going to cry, but she was too afraid to even try to go into the women’s restroom, for fear someone might be in there; instead, despite the fact that she’d have to pass by his desk, she stormed out of the kitchen, out the doors to their suite, sobbing as she ran into the stairwell and leaned against the wall, breaths coming in deep, hiccoughing gulps.   

He hadn’t even looked up when she’d run past his desk, didn’t look up when she came back in and sat woodenly at her desk, her hands still shaking, the occasional sob making her breath catch.  She couldn’t keep from staring at him helplessly for the rest of the day, even though she tried not to. He never looked at her again, in fact – at least, not when she was looking at him.  She was sure she felt his eyes on her when she was looking away, but whenever she dared to look up at him, his eyes always lowered.   

The utter silence between them that last week had been deafening, leaving her feeling panicked, helpless. 

She didn’t fully believe he was going to go until his last day, when Michael had insisted on throwing a party for him even though Jim had all but begged him not to.  The last thing she wanted to do was participate in it, but she was afraid to draw too much attention to herself, so she just sat quietly at her desk, forcing an occasional smile, feeling the panic mounting within her as the reality slowly, slowly sunk in that this was it; he was really leaving.  The thought that she might never see him again made her throat feel like it was closing completely; she couldn’t even breathe when she contemplated that this could really be the last time she’d see him. 

She’d deliberately hung around at the end of the day, waiting for everyone else to leave, watching as Jim packed up his things.  He looked drained, weary, his shoulders drooping as he mechanically put one thing after another into the box in his chair.   When she saw him lift the medal she’d made when they’d done the Office Olympics, pulling it off of his lamp, her breath caught; he held it for a second, as if debating what to do with it, then, his jaw tensing, head down, he’d dropped it into his trashcan. 

At that, she’d leapt to her feet, moving from behind her desk to stand next to his, shaking all over as she asked, tears in her eyes, “Why are you doing this to me?” 

His eyes flicked around the room, scanning to be sure no one else was in the office.  Toby hadn’t left yet, but he was in Michael’s office, the door closed.  His jaw tensed again, and she could tell that he was apparently trying to steady himself before he answered her. 

He didn’t look at her – maybe couldn’t look at her -- as he said, his voice choked, gravelly, “Pam, I’m not…doing this to hurt you.” 

“Then why are you doing it?” She asked, trying desperately not to cry, willing those tears in her eyes not to fall. 

At her question, his head dropped; he slowly shook it back and forth a few times. Then he raised his eyes to meet hers squarely for the first time since that awful exchange in the kitchen five days earlier, and when she saw that tears were welled in his eyes, shimmering heavily on his lower lashes, just on the verge of falling, she wanted to fall to her knees on the floor, to beg him to just stop.   

His voice shook a little as he whispered, “Pam, just…please.  Tell me you want me, and I’ll stay.” 

Her hand covered her mouth as the tears started to trickle down her cheeks; though she tried desperately to quell it, she choked on a sob, gasping loudly, then whispered back, “I can’t, Jim – I just…can’t.” 

His eyes closed, and she watched, feeling her stomach quake and seem to cave in on itself as a tear ran down his face, another quickly following it.  He wiped them away impatiently with his hand, his head lowered. 

Then he raised his eyes, still awash with tears, holding her gaze one last time as he whispered, “I can’t stay and pretend like there’s nothing here; I can’t do that anymore.” 

And then he’d seized up his box, his bag, and his keys, striding quickly toward the door, not looking back.