I drink good coffee every morning.

Come's from a place that's far away.

And when I'm done I feel like talking

Without your here there is less to say.

Every morning is the same.

Alarm. Shower. Shave. Coffee. Work.

Every evening is the same.

Dinner. TV. Sleep.

What kills him is that nothing is the same as he wants it to be. Nothing is the same as it was when they were together, when each day still held something extra, something unexpected. Something exciting.

When he didn't have to spend every day wondering where he went wrong, wonder what he did - or didn't do.

Maybe that had been the problem with their relationship. Maybe he'd done all the wrong things and hadn't done any of the right ones.

He took her for granted. He knows this. But after all those years he'd just assumed nothing could change anymore. They were set. They were in a rut and he'd been happy that way. He's always been a fan of the comfortable, the predictable, the safe.

And he knows he didn't tell her he loved her enough. He's always been uncomfortable talking about his feelings and after ten years he'd figured she'd just know.

He'd been wrong.

I don't want you thinking I'm unhappy.

What is closer to the truth

That if I lived to be 102

I just don't think I'll ever get over you.

He's not happy. He knows this. He hasn't been with her in five years, hasn't seen her in three, and it's still stopping him from letting himself be happy. Because he knows that she is happy, and not with him. She's with another man, probably married by now. They'd been engaged that last time he'd seen her and he knows that Jim wouldn't let three years go by without getting married. He knows that even if Jim hadn't had him around to show him what a mistake it was, that he still would have married her as soon as possible.

Jim had always seemed like the kind of guy to know what he has when he has it.

Unlike Roy, who didn't know what he had until it was gone.

No. He's definitely not happy. He's still half in love with someone who's completely in love with someone else, still loves someone who broke up with him five years ago.

But he's not unhappy. And he figures that's the best he can hope for, at least for now. And he's almost okay with that. He's learned to be content with his life, learned that not being mind-numbingly happy doesn't mean he has to be miserable.

And he does have some things he can find joy in.

Like playing football with his nephew.

Or hanging out at Poor Richard's with Darryl and the other warehouse guys.

Left over pizza in the fridge so he doesn't have to make breakfast.

But he can't stop thinking about how he would be happy, really happy if she were still with him, if they were still together. Mind-numbingly happy.

If instead of pizza for breakfast, he could have one of her amazing omelets.

If instead of hanging out with his friends, he could spend his nights with her.

If instead of a nephew, it was their little boy he played games with.

But he knows that it's never going to happen, that it can never be that way again. And he knows that he has to get over her, has to move on, really move on, with his life. But it's hard and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to leave her completely in the past.

I'm no longer moved to drink strong whiskey

'Cause I shook the hand of time and I knew

That if I lived till I could no longer climb my stairs

I just don't think I'll ever get over you

He'd drunk a lot in the beginning, throwing back shot after shot as he sat in the dingy bar, incapable of doing anything but mourn the loss of the life he'd imagined for himself. Right after she left him, he'd started going to the bar every day after work, and drinking at home on the weekends, away from the mass of mostly happy people he would have to contend with if he went out in public. Sometimes the guys went with him, but mostly he went alone. He'd liked it better that way. He could focus. He'd thought that if he just tried hard enough, if he just concentrated and drank enough, he could drown the voices in his head that told him she would be back.

Because he'd known it wasn't true. She'd insisted it wasn't because of Halpert that she'd left him, insisted there was nothing between. But he'd seen the sadness in her eyes when she said they were just friends, remembered the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't looking or wasn't around. She hadn't looked at him like that in years.

He'd known she wasn't coming back.

It wasn't until he'd woken up on the bathroom floor one morning about three months after she left that he realized what he was doing to himself. He'd taken a look in the mirror, the first good look in a long time, and he'd been almost unable to recognize himself. He'd lost a lot of weight, hadn't shaved in days. He saw bags under his eyes and a pale complexion. He hadn't liked what he'd seen.

It was then that he'd realized that his drinking was only making things worse. It made him sad, made him remember her, wish she were there. Instead of drowning the small voice still left in his mind, taunting him, daring him to hope, it amplified it. It had almost succeeded in convincing him that there was a small chance she might return, despite the fact that he knew it just wouldn't happen.

So he'd stopped. Just stopped. He found other ways to deal with the pain, other ways to help him forget. And when he started going back to the bar, it was always with friends, always to talk. A handful of shots had become one or two beers, and all night had become a couple of hours. And somewhere along the way he realized that in order to happy he needed to want to be happy, needed to let himself be happy.

And he's tried. And it hasn't been easy, but he's almost there. At least he's not unhappy anymore.

Your face it dances and haunts me

You're laughter's still ringing in my ears

I still find pieces of your presence here

Even after all these years

There have been a couple of times he's almost allowed himself to believe he was over her. But he would inevitably come across some reminder of her, some trinket of their life together. Sometimes it was a photograph of the two of them, taken at the lake, at holidays, in school. His arm would be across her shoulders or around her waist and they would be laughing or looking at each other. Happy, blissfully unaware that their relationship was doomed, that just the illusion of love and happiness would be all they would have left in a few years.

Sometimes he would find a gift she had given him for Christmas or a birthday or an anniversary. He'd been unable to appreciate them at the time, always wishing she had gotten him a new video game or television instead of whatever it was he'd unwrapped. But now, with years behind it and the loss of the giver, he thinks that she always managed to find the perfect gift. She'd always managed to give him something that would become indispensable in his life.

One time he'd found a watercolor she had done from an old picture of the two of them. She'd painted it early in their relationship, maybe right after high school. When he sees it he remembers how they were back then, carefree, happy. It was from before they'd gotten stuck in lives that couldn't seem to be enough, before 'Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam,' before warehouses and forklifts and tiny, cramped apartments. Before they'd realized that the lives they'd imagined for themselves were nothing more than illusions, the dreams of children who'd known even less about life and love than they thought.

Looking at the watercolor he'd been struck by how good it was, how talented she'd been, even then. He knows that she's working as an illustrator now - he's seen some of her work. His mother insists on showing him the things she's done when she finds something new, unaware that it kills him a little each time. He's not sure she would have ever pursued that dream if they'd stayed together. He likes to think she would have, but he can't remember the last time he saw her paint. He knows it had been years before the break up.

It makes him sadder to think that he'd been the reason, that he'd been holding her back. So he tries not to think about it at all.

But I don't want you thinking I don't get asked to dinner

'Cause I'm here to say that I sometimes do

Even though I may soon feel the touch of love

I just don't think I'll ever get over you

If I lived till I was 102

I just don't think I'll ever get over you

He's not over her. He has pretty much lost hope that he will ever be able to get her completely out of his head.

But he's trying.

He's gone on dates, gone out with a few women more than once. The latest, Anna, he's been seeing for a few months. It's strange to be seeing a woman regularly, strange to hear her call him her boyfriend. He hasn't been in a real relationship since he was with Pam and before that he'd never really been in one. His high school girlfriends before Pam just don't seem to matter.

He thinks he's starting to feel something for Anna, really feel something. Something more than he's felt in a while. He thinks he could one day love her, but he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to love her the way he did Pam.

At least he's stopped comparing her to Pam. It's a small thing, but it gives him hope.

He's finally started thinking it might be possible to one day be over her.