She chose the purple turtleneck because she liked it that the sleeves were too long. There was something strangely alluring about the feel of the whispery fabric clinging to her wrists, the delicate heels of her hands, tempting her fingers down toward her palms in a gesture that seemed comforting somehow. The jumper was purely a sentimental thing; she'd worn it in high school - senior year, when she'd attended the ceremony to accept a plaque for her contribution to Chrysalis, the school's literary and arts magazine.

She'd done a still life of the flagpole outside the front entrance to the school, all black and white but for the red stripes in the flag.

It had resonated with some of the teachers and a small proportion of the students, so she'd won the third place prize. When she'd gotten the thick, creamy envelope in the mail, complete with an official seal, she had rushed into the house, calling out for her mother because she knew what the contents would hold – and she wanted to share that moment with her mom.

Her mother had helped her pick out the jumper, declaring it stylish enough ("Black is always classy"), yet just esoteric enough for an aspiring painter. ("A jumper just seems to scream artist, don't you think?")

While she'd never forget her mother's genuine enthusiasm, which she later recognized made the whole experience that much more amazing, it had not prepared her well for Roy's oblivious indifference.

…Which, incidentally, she’d never forget either.

She'd driven over to his house, which she usually didn't do on school nights, rushing out of the car to scramble up the stairs of his front porch, bouncing on her heels as she waited for him to answer the door.

He'd read the contents on the page, his brow furrowing; when his eyes met hers, she was startled to see pity there...nothing remotely akin to the bursting pride she'd seen on her mother's face.

"Third place? Oh babe...I'm sorry. But you know, this doesn't matter in the long run; it's just a stupid high school publication. Doesn't mean a thing." He'd flashed her that dimpled smile.

All she could do was stare at him, afraid to blink.

-----------------

"Roy said that?"

He hadn't been able to look at her, his jaw taut with anger.

It was the first time that she'd ever seen Jim truly mad. Sure, after years of working with him and Dwight, she'd witnessed his exasperation a hundred times. Yet frustration could easily be managed with a retaliatory prank.

But this? It was a kind of disheartened wariness, as if she'd really wounded him by giving up so easily.

"Is there something you'd like to say?"

It was easier to get defensive than to face the fact that he was right to be upset - that she ought to be upset. Ought to be elated, too, that someone cared enough about her to react in the way that he was now.

Jim shook his head, then: "You've got to take a chance on something sometime, Pam. ...I mean, do you want to be a receptionist here...always?"

"Oh...excuse me!" The volume of her voice startled her, but it had been second nature to react with righteous indignation - so much easier than honesty. "I'm fine with my choices!"

Whenever she actually yelled, Roy unfailingly gave up - either he'd be intimidated enough to step forward, pull her into his arms, whisper to her that he was sorry and that they just needed to forget about it; or he'd get so frustrated that he'd storm out with a wave of his hand, a shake of the head – and they’d never talk about it again.

He had never challenged her - because he didn't know her well enough to do so.

Strange that the realization hadn't occurred to her until she stood there forcing herself to glare at Jim – who had no qualms about challenging her.

Never mind that he was slowly dismantling her defenses every single fucking day.

He didn't break eye contact, his shoulders slumped, voice incredulous. "You are?"

"Yeah." She'd been aiming for sarcasm, but had only succeeded in managing a weak, defensive inflection that sounded even to her own ears like a petulant teenager.

She had stood then, brushing past him to storm out.

Twenty minutes later, he sent her a simple email, its honesty intensifying the ache she'd long since learned to live with:

She'd known even when she read it that he wasn't just talking about the internship; she had, in fact, read it with tears hovering, her throat swelling and aching so much that it hurt to swallow.

It had taken her a week to find the courage to thank him - and even then, she'd done so in an email:

That was as far as she allowed herself to go; he knew her too well - frighteningly so - and if she were to say more than that, she worried he'd push further.

She worried she'd break and say all the things she tried so desperately not to think.

-------------------------

She stood alone, adjusting and then re-adjusting her drawings. When more than forty-five minutes passed with not one recognizable face, she told herself that it didn't matter; this wasn't about any kind of public recognition. It was symbolic of the steps she'd taken over the last eight months.

As if to punctuate her thought, Roy came around the corner. The self-loathing was biting when she heard herself say, "Hey babe..."

The words sounded so wrong, mere echoes of her high school self.

His too-evident pride at the fact that he'd not only shown up (it's something you should be rewarded for?), but had also brought his brother, who was dismally out of place (God, I miss Jonathan so much sometimes…all the time) made her hesitate; when he'd pointed out the absence of all her co-workers as if it were a good thing, she'd swallowed hard, the space seeming very small all of a sudden.

At the door, she kissed him goodbye, trying to ignore the implications in what he said so proudly: "I looked at all of them."

When he'd asked if she would meet him at his place, saliva had filled her mouth, the bile rising in her throat without warning.

It was easiest to just throw out an excuse about being tired. Because he was Roy (not Jim), he bought it, offering her a compliment that made her cringe ("Yours is the prettiest...of all the artwork").

As she watched his truck back out of its parking place, she knew that she shouldn't beat herself up for slipping backward a bit; more than that, she felt a sense of relief (my god, it never would've worked) that offered closure, but no real consolation.

----------------

She watched Michael's profile, struggling not to cry. His earnest, so enthusiastic response was like a salve on the raw wound Gil's words had so carelessly wrought. Even as the realization struck her, she waited for Michael to ruin it - to be insensitive, maybe do something totally inappropriate like claim that the stapler drawing was phallic or something.

Instead, he simply looked over at her, lips pulled back in a small smile - the kind of restrained smile that speaks volumes, emotes so much more than even full-on laughter or a beaming expression can.

"I'm proud of you."

As she stepped forward instinctively, putting her arms around his neck, she realized then that those were the words she'd never heard Roy speak. Not once.

Nor would she ever, because he just didn't get it.

But she did.

Finally.

--------------

She drank half of a bottle of wine and began composing emails to him, all of them in Word so she could edit them. ...As if she'd ever send them.

The first sensation she was aware of was a strange pulsing sensation behind her eyes, like the kind of flourescent glow that lingers from staring too long at a computer screen in a dark room. Her first move was purely instinctual - one hand passing over her lids, her eyes shut tight as she nestled deeper into her pillow, the fabric like a warm breeze on her skin, which was far too sensitive.

She snuggled deeper into her blankets, suddenly very grateful that she'd sucked it up and spent the money for 600 thread count sheets. It was so worth it now...the morning after her art show had been a miserable failure, when she was still smarting from the sorrow she'd attempted to drown in two thirds of a bottle of wine.

The realizations had begun as something like badges of honor, spiraling all too quickly into a panicked shame that actually made her cheeks burn.

She shook her head as if she'd actually been having the conversation with someone, padding into her kitchen to make a cup of hot tea. She had managed to heat the water, dunk the tea bag, even add Splenda before it came back to her:

...Something about emailing him in a flash of anger and impatience and desire and desperation.

She rushed to the computer, knocking over her desk chair with a loud clatter that sent a potted plant crashing off the side of the desk, potting soil sprinkled across her carpet.

She hardly noticed, hovering awkwardly over her desk, her hand shaking slightly as she impatiently shook the mouse, willing the monitor to blink to life. As she waited the seemingly interminable three seconds, she breathed a silent prayer - more like a mantra - Please tell me I didn't send anything; please tell me I didn't do it.

When the screen flicked on, her heart seemed to stop: Message sent to jim.halpert@dunder_mifflin.org.

"Oh my god." Her voice trembled in the empty apartment as with one hand she fumbled for her toppled desk chair, the other hand sliding the mouse and clicking on her 'sent' folder. When the screen flipped to her sent items, she sank into the chair, both hands covering her mouth.

Four emails.

She'd sent him four emails the night before...all in rapid-fire succession. The fact that she genuinely had very little recollection of what she'd said was absolutely horrifying; the only thing more frightening than not knowing for sure what she'd written was the acute awareness of all the things she wanted to say - and had wanted to say ever since that night in May, the desperation growing so strong at times that she worried it would make her lose all control and do something crazy.

Like this.

When she finally mustered the courage to double click on one of the messages, she deliberately chose the final one, knowing instinctively that she'd worked up to it -- that it was probably the worst. What she hadn't realized that it would be far worse than she'd even imagined.

Even though her head was pounding, she lowered it into her hands anyway, the sobs beginning from deep in the pit of her stomach, leaving a hollow ache in her throat.

She turned off the phone and went back to bed, struggling to just be still - because it hurt to move and it hurt even more to think. After forty-five minutes, she drifted into a troubled sleep, awakening two and a half hours later with swollen eyes and a head that still throbbed. The only consolation was that Roy and Kenny had gone to a basketball game that was two and a half hours away, so they'd planned on staying with a cousin of theirs and wouldn't be coming home until late Sunday night.

When she trudged groggily into her kitchen, she tried to tell herself that this would all be fine; she could tell him the truth - that she was upset and drunk and didn't intend to send those emails.

By Sunday night - after checking her email nervously every half hour, literally - she had almost talked herself into believing that maybe he hadn't even gotten the emails in the first place; maybe they had gotten lost in cyberspace.

---------------

Walking into the office Monday morning was like starting all over again; she had no idea how to address it with Jim, how to make things okay. Should she acknowledge it? Deny it? Wait for him to give her some clue, then go from there?

Forty-five minutes passed before he came through those doors (she'd arrived shortly after seven am...just in case), hanging his coat on the rack with an uncomfortable sideways glance in her direction. He didn't dare meet her eyes - and she wasn't sure whether to be grateful or offended.

In reality, she was utterly terrified.

So she said nothing, did nothing, just shuffled the paperwork on her desk, staring at the back of his neck as if she could somehow glean what he was thinking just from the way his hair curled slightly at his collar. The minutes ticked by endlessly while she watched him, her hands damp, stomach contracted painfully. Michael came out to ask him about a sale he'd made earlier in the month; she listened carefully when Jim answered, struggling to detect from his voice what he was thinking.

But he sounded as he always did - affable, his voice deep and smooth.

It was maddening not to know what he was thinking - whether or not he'd gotten those emails. Because he was absolutely unreadable, and try as she might, she couldn't work up the nerve to approach him...no matter how much she tried to convince herself to just do it.

It was a bitter affirmation.

-------------

"Hey."

She whirled around - too quickly - her hands fluttering as she stammered back, "Hey."

He was standing just inside the door, his hands in his pockets, head bowed slightly. Their eyes met and held, but only for a moment; he was quick to look away, and she was grateful because already that shaming heat was stinging her cheeks.

It didn't matter that he'd once been her best friend; it didn't matter that she knew he cared enough about her to never be cruel about something like this.

Didn't matter that he'd once told her the same thing - said he was in love with her.

None of that mattered now because she had the painful suspicion that it was too late.

A protracted silence fell, during which she attempted in vain to summon the courage to look up at him, to smile and offer a breezy goodbye; to return to her desk and just not acknowledge anything. For a fleeting, insane moment, she contemplated claiming she'd had a friend over who had sent the emails - then immediately realized what a stupid, implausible tale that would be.

A faint shudder slipped down her spine as she realized fully for the first time that there was no way around this other than to just face it.

But before she could manage to speak, he suddenly looked up, then blurted without warning, those hazel eyes boring into hers, "Pam, I got..."

She wanted to hold his gaze unwaveringly, but she just couldn't; she had to look away, swallowing hard, cheeks flaming, throat swelling.

His voice was strained, barely more than a whisper: "I mean, do you....?"

But when she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out but a strangled, "I..."

Silence fell. She looked away, but in her peripheral vision, she discerned that he was watching her closely. She shifted from one foot to another, but didn't let herself walk away.

When next he spoke, it was throaty, almost a plea - like he was desperate. "I need to know."

As she looked at him - standing there with his back to the door, probably blocking it so that no one (Karen) could wander in - she felt an unexpected surge of anger.

Without even thinking first, she scoffed, "Oh, you suddenly 'need' to know. Right."

He physically drew back, his eyebrows up in surprise. She regretted it instantly, but the ache in her throat was so pronounced that she was too afraid to try to speak, to say what she was feeling: I'm sorry - I'm sorry for so many things, not just what I said.

She could tell from the careful, measured tone of his voice that he was struggling to maintain his control as he asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Because she was too afraid to answer the question - because she didn't know how to answer the question - she shook her head in disgust, murmuring, "It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" This time his voice actually cracked, and when she looked up at him again, the slump of his shoulders seemed so familiar; in fact, the deja vu was almost overwhelming.

For some reason, the memory made her angry, so she snapped, "No, it doesn't, Jim."

His name sounded strange on her lips; she realized then that she rarely called him by his first name. It struck her how oddly impersonal it seemed to reference him by his name...so foreign, so formal.

So not them.

The tears sprung to her eyes, hot and unexpected.

When next he spoke, his voice was unbearably gentle, as if he were reading her mind, discerning her every emotion: "Why doesn't it matter?"

She dared to glance up at him, but only for a second; the look on his face intensified the ache in her belly, her nose starting to sting with the effort it took to stave off the tears.

"It just...doesn't." She shook her head, then added, the words just slipping out, "You're with Karen."

He didn't skip a beat. "And you're back with Roy."

Her head jerked up, eyes meeting his through a haze of unshed tears; he seemed to notice them, his head tilting slightly, a pleading expression flickering over his face for a second.

And then he shocked her by shaking his head slightly, eyes never leaving hers as he whispered, "What're we doing?"

She'd seen that look on his face before, had heard that same inflection in his voice: I'm in love with you.

For the first time, she didn't try to shy away from the memory or rationalize it; she didn't attempt to push away the raw emotion that it evoked, nor did she allow herself to minimalize it.

Instead, she closed her eyes, one of the tears that had pooled so precariously spilling down.

She didn't move to wipe it away; all she did was whisper back to him, "I'm sorry."

When she was met with silence, she opened her eyes - hesitantly, fearfully, as if he'd be disgusted by her tears or worse yet, merely indifferent.

Instead, his hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his head tilted, brow furrowed with such obvious concern that she almost gasped out loud.

"Why're you...? What're you sorry for?" He shook his head.

Her smile was so tired. "Everything."

He wasn't smiling - not even close. She felt the pain in her throat intensify when she realized he was trying to blink back tears. "Everything?"

Their eyes met and held again, and she was absolutely positive that he knew the whole truth in that moment - all she wanted, all she'd tried to deny, how utterly destroyed and exhausted she felt after almost a year of running from the thing she wanted most.

So she whispered, sniffling loudly as another tear streaking her cheek, "Not everything."

His eyes followed the path of that tear; she held her breath when he stepped forward, reaching out to gently wipe it away with his thumb, lingering for a second before his hand dropped to his side. In spite of herself, she glanced nervously at the window, but he didn't move his eyes from her.

"Pam..." Again he shook his head, eyes holding hers. "Please...tell me what you're sorry about. I just - I need to know."

The sound of her voice shocked her; the words that came out of her mouth positively stunned her: "I'd rather tell you what I'm not sorry for."

Fear flickered behind his eyes; she wanted so much to reach out and touch his face the way he'd touched hers, but she didn't dare.

She went on: "I'm not sorry that everything got so...complicated with you; I'm not sorry that fell for you even though I was engaged."

His lips parted, eyes widening.

Before he could speak, she silenced him: "I'm not sorry that you told me you were in love with me, because it really made me..."

She sucked in a breath, shaking her head as she took in his familiar face. "...I don't know; I just - you were really brave to do that; you were so... I know how hard that had to be for you."

When he bowed his head, she was again seized by the desire to touch him, to gently raise his chin, to make him look at her -- but he was standing in front of the door, framed by the window.

So she setlled for saying softly, "Please look at me..."

When he did, her eyes closed involuntarily, her hands trembling a little.

But she went on. "I'm not sorry that you kissed me, either, because it...it was what I needed to snap out of that stupid delusional state I was in - telling myself you were just my best friend, and it was -- "

She was aware suddenly that he was staring at her; she blushed, averting her eyes, then thought, No...I'm finishing this.

So she forced herself to look him in they eye again. "I'm not sorry that you transferred, because God, it was such a...such a shock. And I needed it, even though - I mean, I need you to know that, no matter how much I admire you for just putting it all out there and coming clean the way you did, I also think that you put me in a really awful position - "

"I know, Pam; I just -- "

"No - I'm not asking for an apology; I just need to say it." She took in a deep, almost gulping breath. "It wasn't fair that you just dropped that on me with no warning - "

"No warning? C'mon, Pam...." His smile was so sad, wry. "You had to know - are you telling me you didn't know?"

She ignored the instinctive urge to look away, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "Of course I knew. But it wasn't something that I let myself even consider. More than that, though, I didn't know that you were basically giving me an ultimatum that night -- I had no idea that it was all or nothing."

"Pam - "

"No - you can't tell me that I'm wrong here. I had no idea that you'd just disappear if I turned you down; if you'd really been honest - told me that it had gotten to that point - yeah, maybe I'd have reacted differently. But I'm not sure; I was supposed to get married in a few weeks."

"I know."

A silence fell.

"But I'm still not sorry that you did it. And I'm not sorry that I broke my engagement with Roy."

His head snapped up. "But you're - "

"And you're with Karen."

Their eyes held for a long moment.

"Pam - "

"And I'm not sorry I sent those emails, no matter how drunk I was." It was a desperate whisper; she didn't dare look at him as she said the words, but when she braved a glance, the expression on his face said it all.

He was hers; this was it.

Then he asked softly, "Wanna know what I'm sorry for?"

"Okay..."

He tilted his head at her. "I'm sorry that I didn't know about the art show; I'd have been there - no matter what, Pam, I'd have been there. I hope you know that."

Again the tears welled in her eyes. "Yeah..."

A long silence fell, their eyes locked. Then he said, "We've got some stuff to figure out."

"I know."

"But... I think we're gonna be okay." He smiled down at her, just the slightest hint of pride lurking in the corners of his mouth. "What do you think?"

She didn't hesitate. "I think we'll be more than okay."

Again there was a comfortable silence, their eyes locked. She wanted more than anything to take a step forward and press her lips to his...but there would be time for that later.

And that was maybe the most amazing thing of all: They had time now.

His lips twisted into a wry grin then, that old mischievous light behind his eyes. "So...courage and honesty aren't your strong suits, eh?"

The relief was almost intoxicating; she beamed at him. "Not according to Oscar and Gil."

"Mmm." He nodded once, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully before turning his eyes back to her. "Yeah, well, I think I'm gonna have to respectfully disagree with them on that one."