It might be the most awkward elevator ride of his life; neither of them so much as look at each other once. He can hear Pam’s persistent sniffling over the whirring of the old elevator, and he doesn’t need to see her face to know it’s marked with tears. He feels like crying himself. The doors open, and he gestures wordlessly for her to exit the elevator first. She moves on shaky legs and he trails after her in a daze.

The doors to the office are still unlocked. He knows Pam plans to lock them from the inside before she leaves for the night. Of course, Dwight is the only one aside from the security guard who keeps the actual keys to the place, both the master and the spare. When Pam had asked Dwight what would happen if he died, and she and her coworkers needed to get into the office, he replied, “If I'm dead, you guys have been dead for weeks.” Though she and Jim both would never admit it, even to each other, they think there is probably some truth to that.

Pam wraps her arms around herself, shivering, as Jim follows her into the office. Red-eyed and blotchy-cheeked, she sits lightly on the edge of Jim’s desk, not meeting his eyes. “Are you cold?,” Jim asks gruffly, already pulling off his sweater and offering it to her. He can deny her nothing. Nodding slightly, she takes it from his hands, shoving it over her head and pushing her arms through the sleeves. It is comically big on her, but Jim thinks she’s never looked more beautiful. “Pam.” She ignores him, tears running silently down her face. She looks like a child in need of comfort from her mother. “I can leave.” He turns toward the door. “I…didn’t mean to make you upset.” This gets her attention.

“No!,” she calls out, panicked. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m just, I promise I’m not crazy, I…I” She’s starting to hyperventilate, gasping for air.

He hurries over to her. “Hey. Hey, Pam. Look at me. It’s okay. You’re not crazy. I know you’re not crazy. You’re allowed to feel things. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

She looks up at him desperately. “Everything,” She mouths, unable to voice the word. 

“What’s that?,” Jim prods, gently, slowly sinking into his desk chair in front of her, hands gripping the armrests for dear life.

“Everything.” She blinks at him.

“Oh, Pam.” Jim looks tortured. “Just tell me what you want me to do. Anything, and I’ll do it.”

“I just…I don’t want this particular life.” She wrings her hands in her lap.

“What?” He‘s genuinely not sure he’s heard her correctly.

“I…I’m not happy.” She twists her engagement ring over and over, bringing it almost all the way off her finger before sliding it back on.

Trying to ignore the hope that’s rising in his chest, he asks, “Why aren’t you happy?”

In a voice that’s barely more than a whisper, she replies, “This is never where I thought I’d be, a receptionist (her voice breaks on the word), and a crappy amateur artist, about to marry my boyfriend from high school.” 

Before he can stop himself, he stills her much smaller hands with his own, finding her eyes with his. She's shaking. “Pam. You’re so smart and funny and beautiful...and talented. And you’ve got your entire life ahead of you. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, especially if it doesn’t make you happy.”

He feels her hands stiffen beneath his own. “I don’t know what to do. Jim, I need help.”

He gently squeezes her fingers. “I’ll help you. Anything you need.”