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What I really want out of life

The filming crew tried so hard. Jim actually felt bad, felt like throwing them a bone by saying something, but he didn't. He'd promised.

He'd been in Stamford now for about two months; it had been three months since the night he'd finally broken down and told Pam how he felt. He'd been in Scranton one excruciating week after that, then in Australia for three (a drunken blur of tears, tourist traps, and beer that didn't taste like Fosters), and then had settled here.

Jim was homesick. He missed his roommate. He missed the grocery store and the laundromat he was used to. He missed - and he hated to admit it - he missed his old job. He didn't fit in here among the straight-laced corporate types. The job was the same. It was just as dull and soul-draining and lifeless as it had been in Scranton, but the people here liked it. It was indecent. He wanted to go back. Back to Dwight, whose particular brand of crazy he'd come to understand. Back to Michael, who may have been the worst boss ever but who genuinely liked him.

Back to her.

But he didn't go back, not yet, just like he didn't say anything to the camera crew. He'd promised.

Still, in quiet moments he re-read to himself, over and over, the letter he'd found after his first week in Stamford. It had no postage, no return address. It was not in the mailbox, but stuck in the door - hand delivered while he was at work. A shiver had passed through him like cold lightning as he recognized the handwriting.

Jim,

I don't know if you've heard yet, but I didn't get married. I don't know if that makes any difference to you anymore, after all I've put you through, but I needed to let you know. I would have called, but I was afraid. I couldn't stand the thought of you telling me it was too late. When I didn't hear from you, though, I thought that either no one had told you, or that maybe you were waiting for me, so...I'm writing this letter. I know it's cowardly, but it's the best I can do right now.

The thing is, I didn't really know why I couldn't marry him until you were gone. I couldn't see what was missing in our relationship because I wasn't missing anything in my life. I had support and encouragement and conversation and laughter and joy- but it was all from you. When you left, all of that was gone. I had to face the fact that I would be entering a marriage that had become more about comfort than about love. In a truly messed-up way, you were the only thing keeping me and Roy together.

Looking ahead into a future like that, without you there, was so scary. It was scarier than change, it was scarier than being alone, so I ended it. It was awful, and I almost called you in Australia, but I thought that would be so unfair. What more could you do for me that you hadn't already done, or tried to do? How could I try to take more from you when you'd offered me everything and I turned it down? So I didn't call.

I'm doing OK now, I guess. I've moved out. I left him everything except my clothes, art supplies, and books. I sometimes miss the fancy big TV, but otherwise there was nothing in that place that I wanted with me. I don't want to be chained to that past anymore. I am moving forward. I feel strong, and free, and only a little bit lonely. I'm getting to know myself for the first time as an adult. I think I like myself pretty well, but there's a lot of room for improvement. Whatever happens next, I am cherishing this time to learn what I really want out of life.

So, now I've written half of a novel without getting to the point. The real point, I mean. The one thing I've learned about myself so far, for sure, no doubt, is that I love you, Jim Halpert. I love you, and I miss you. I have cried a lot since you've been gone, and many more tears were for how much I've hurt you than for any regrets about the wedding or anything else. Letting you go was the stupidest thing I have ever done, and I pray to God the stupidest thing I ever do. Even if I've messed everything up beyond repair, I hope you can believe me and eventually forgive me. I've been cruel and careless. I'm so sorry.

In a way, though, I had to do it. I had to know what it was like to be without you so I could truly know how much you mean to me.

You mean everything, by the way.

If you get this letter and you want to talk, call me. If I don't hear from you, it's OK. I understand. Maybe let me know you got this, though, either way? Drop me an e-mail or something, just so I don't wonder if maybe it blew away or I got the wrong house or something and have to go through all of this again. That would not be good.

I am praying with all my heart that we can work this out and find a way to be together, at least as friends. I don't want to rush into anything, and I don't want to miss out on the chance to heal and grow, but at the same time...I want so badly to have a chance to love you the way you deserve to be loved- the way you've loved me all this time.

With all my heart,

Pam

 

They'd agreed to take it slowly, to give both of them time to push out of their comfort zones and decide what they wanted out of life. Whatever else, they both knew that included each other.

 



nqllisi is the author of 87 other stories.
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