What's so special about her? You wonder. Is it that you can feel her eyes on the back of your head? Yes. It breaks your heart, because you know the look in her eyes. The look of hurt, anger, fright. She doesn't know it, but if you angle your monitor just a bit to your left, you can see her reflection. Small price to pay for a black desktop background.

Why can't you just let go? You ask yourself every morning. Is it because for the last five years, you've seen nothing but hurt in her eyes? Stop. You can't think about that. You know damn well if you let yourself think about this, you'll end up making everything worse.

How? How can things be worse? You know the answer to that. You put the hurt in her eyes. You took this lost, broken girl and gave her a sparkle in her eye, a whole new smile the world had never seen before.

And just as quickly as you fixed her, you broke her again. You put the hurt in her eyes.

Something in her eyes tells you it's not too late, but you keep trying to convince yourself that it's just the reflection.

You can't actually look her in the eyes. It sends your heart into your stomach. It makes you sick. Nobody notices your sudden loss of color, or your quick trip to the restroom. It still makes you sick. You don't eat breakfast anymore because it's not worth it. You just have to walk past her, smile, and say hello on your way in. Even if you don't look at her. Her voice.

Her saying your name.

It makes you sick.

And you know how to fix it. You do. But you can't bring yourself to do anything. It's not fair to Karen.

This isn't fair to Pam.

This isn't fair to you.

And that's why you don't tell anyone when you accept the position in New York. That's why you're sick every day, now. You can't bring yourself to throw her note away, or the "medal." You don't dare call Karen and ask her how Scranton's holding up. Partly because you already know. Partly because her eyes don't show hurt. It's her voice that gives it away.

Nobody wins. And it's not fair. But you just need time to think. Maybe you'll know soon.

You hope you'll know soon.

Your first visit to check on Scranton (Michael) is in two days. You hope you'll know by then. New York's terrifying when you're taking it head-on, and all alone.

And then it's here. You make the drive to Scranton. And her voice, her saying your name, makes you sick. Your heart falls into your stomach as you realize the hurt's not there.

It's gone. She looks tired. Numb. She admits it. She realizes she missed her chance, but she wants you to realize what you've done. She was content in her misery. And then you woke her from from her nightmare, promised her Heaven and Earth. And then you left. No goodbye. No nothing. She asks you what chance she really ever had.

And it takes all you've got not to drop to your knees and beg. You love her. Her smile, however fake, still makes you dizzy.

You just sniffle, and scuffle over to Michael's office, though. You notice someone new in Karen's desk.

It's killing you. Heartbreaker. Selfish bastard. User, liar, player. All of those, and more. And you're shown Karen's two-weeks notice letter. And you can tell she made out okay.

And you see Pam's eyes again, on the way out, and you can see she's numb. She's not content in her misery, this time.

You could fix it. You could fix her again.

And you want to, but she won't let you. She's spent twelve years being alone, scared, heart-broken and numb. What's another sixty or seventy?

You know what you have to do.

Do you really have to? Is this just a selfish want? Roy loves you.

So does Jim. Well, he said he did. Then he up and left. Would he have said those things, would he have kissed you and asked again if he hadn't meant it? How could it possibly benefit him to throw you that curveball, and have it hit the zone for a strike?

You've been around Roy far too long if you just used that analogy.

You know what you have to do. There's no thinking twice about this. Just do it.

You call your mother ahead of time. She knows before you even say hello. She's happy for you. She was happy before, but it means more now. She knows you'll be happier.

You're not so sure. At least with Roy it was safe. It was a sure thing that you'd always have someone there; it wouldn't matter if he ran around on you, or if he didn't let you go to New York. You'd have someone there. Someone to shoot down your hopes and dreams. Someone to boss you around and tell you everything you worked so hard for will, for absolute certain, get you nowere.

Don't even think about "with Jim." There won't be a "with Jim." If you stop now to think about why, there'll be no leaving.

Throw a few things into the bag. Leave the pictures. Leave the teapot. Leave the iPod. Half your sweaters. Leave the memories.

You hope.

Before you know it, you're gone. You're in your old room, just the way you left it. Roy's calling and asking when you'll be done with your silly little game because he's hungry, damn it.

You just want to know when it will stop. Your heart won't stop breaking.

Roy has no faith in you, or your ability, or your decision.

Jim, pretty obviously, didn't either. Didn't. He's not coming back. You blew it.

You haven't cried into your pillow since you were sixteen, but it seems like there will never be a better time to start again.