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It had been two weeks, three days, eleven hours and forty two minutes since he had spoken to her.
But who was counting?
Not him, definitely not him. He decided the minute that she said she was still going to marry him, that he was done. Capital D, Done.
So what, he was still in love with her? So what? Did that mean that every second of every minute of every day he had to think about her? Did that mean that he couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't really do anything but think about her and what she was doing, and if she was happy, if she was laughing or crying, or okay?
And so what if when he closed his eyes all he could think about was the way that her hands felt as they closed around his, and how her fingers fit perfectly between his in a way that made him think that maybe there was a higher power designing things? And so what if he could feel her hair tangled up in his hands, sliding through as he pressed his mouth to hers and she whispered his name back into his?
There were more productive things to be doing than wasting time pining over an engaged woman. She was taken, and she had made that very clear. She was going to marry him.
He could list about a thousand reasons that she shouldn't go through with it. Starting with number one: she was too good for him, and ending with the last: He was supposed to be the one for her.
He could accept it. If she was happy, that was one thing, but she was so clearly unhappy. And she was too stubborn or too proud or too scared or too something to do anything about it. She was going to marry that idiot and then be miserable for the rest of her life.
He couldn't handle that. He couldn't handle her being unhappy for the rest of her life. She deserved so much more than that, she deserved to be happy and loved. She deserved more than that idiot could give her.
Truth was she deserved more than he could give her too.
But she wasn't talking to him. She hadn't talked to him since the night of Toby's going away party when they had stumbled into one another back up in the office and stopped short when Phyllis discovered them.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Angela had said, gathering her skirt and rebuttoning her shirt and straightening her hair. "I shouldn't be doing this. I'm engaged."
"Don't marry him," he had pleaded. "Monkey, please. Don't marry him." Angela bit her lip, and shook her head.
"D," she started.
"We could be happy," Dwight tried. She was moving away from him, and he knew that if she walked out of the office she was gone.
"Dwight," she said again. Her voice wavered and she ran a hand through her hair and she looked so lost and so sad that all he wanted to do was gather her up in his arms and never let her go.
If she was his again, he would never let her go.
"Are you going to marry him?" Dwight asked.
"Yes," she replied softly. "I am."
"Then I guess we're done," Dwight said, and he could feel his heart splinter and he could almost see the pieces bounce down around his feet.
"I guess we are," Angela replied and she grabbed her purse and left him alone in the quiet and dark office.
That was two weeks, three days, eleven hours, and forty two minutes ago.
They hadn't spoken since.
Story Notes:
The song is by Wilco. Love Wilco. Seriously.
Chapter End Notes:
So I'm not sure where that came from, but I was thinking how freaky it was that Jim and Dwight are (maybe) in identical situations. And how crazy that is. I'm not entirely sure if I like it, but it wouldn't get out of my head. So there you go.
