She realized how much the mess of emotions was really effecting her one cool autumn night. She was sprawled across the pansy-violet sofa centered in her living room, tears streaming down her face like it was the end of the world.

Maybe it was. Maybe it was the end of her world. Her world used to be paint puddles oozing off unsteady coffee tables on Sunday afternoons. Her world used to be waking up, sheets tugged tightly around her smooth skin, to look into the eyes of the scruffy man she was engaged too, day after day, monotonously so. Her world used to be dripping with laughter and blissful smiles during tedious days at work from a guy she considered her best friend. Her world used to be something she could deal with, even on the lowest of levels, built together by false hopes and promises she was certain were true. But now it seemed like nothing was right and the life she had struggled to build came crumbling down, falling like the tears on her pink cheeks.

She tells herself to breathe as she slowly comes to her feet, releasing deteriorating tissues to the floor, feeling unsteady from the ache in her eyes. She tells herself she shouldn’t be overreacting like a silly teenager; she’s older than that and much more mature. She tells herself this will all pass and it will get better again. But deep down, somewhere in the splinters of her tender heart, she knows it won’t be.

She needs to get outside – get some fresh air in her swollen lungs. She gently twists the chrome doorknob and blinks to adjust to the sudden change to darkness. But blinking doesn’t always clear the view.

A gust of wind tickles her nose as she inhales the sweet aroma of autumn leaves and pumpkin seeds. Her arms cross tightly across her chest and she shudders from the cool air engulfing her. Her auburn hair blows gently in the crossing winds, brushing off her shoulders and fluttering in one direction.

The tear stains on her rose cheeks, the dampness of her hair, and the trembling in her hands lead her believe she’s broken. The symptoms of her emotionally bemused state throw her to the edge of a breakdown. She dangles helplessly, holding on to the smallest of lifelines; work, art, her family, and the dwindling memories of happiness. Her feet pierce the edge of this sensitively tall cliff, attempting to pull her away from letting go. And she holds on because somewhere inside of her, she knows she’s a fighter.

She didn’t know her life would fall to such low levels of repulsiveness. She was convinced when she ended her engagement with Roy aspects of her life would soon look up, especially the aspects that involved Jim. But the first time her throat tightened when she became aware that Jim couldn’t be hers, even after creating a “new-and-improved” persona, she wasn’t so sure she was looking “up”. Instead, she was looking down the barrel of an unwelcoming emotion that abruptly invaded her lifestyle, making any encounter with him an anguishing one; bittersweet love. “Fancy New Beesly” turned out to not be so fancy after all.

She was able to maintain a smile for the office even if she spent the twenty minute drive to work white knuckled and crying against the steering wheel. As secretary, it was her job to be the face that read like a lighthearted greeting card, welcoming anyone who entered Dunder Mifflin. She had everyone fooled; even those she didn’t want to be.

She had her chance and she hated how she knew it. Jim opened his heart to her and spoke words she dreaded to hear but knew she had to, despite her unwillingness to surrender to the truth. Replaying Jim’s inevitable words after the office’s casino party burned through her heart, rippling like an earthquake; rattling her fragile state. She denied his request and unintentionally broke her own subliminal request. That night her decision was focused on following the droning path of regularity she was drawn to. Her consistent relationship with Roy, job at Dunder Mifflin, and lifestyle at home cut her short from the person she yearned to be.

It was no surprise to her when Jim left. The sudden effects of it were, like when she glanced at his desk to catch a glimpse of his light brown eyes but then realized he wasn’t looking back, or when she peered up from her computer to see if he would be standing there, reaching for the jelly beans perched on her desk, trying to stop a smile from broadening across his round cheeks, but then realized he wasn’t going to be there, either. Those were the instances that hurt. But the idea that he would eventually leave wasn’t something new to her. Now, feeling the way he did that night after the casino party, she understood why he left and she kind of wished she left, too.

Her eyes drifted toward the stars hovering above her, seemingly close enough for her to reach up and snatch a few to hold in the small palms of her hands. She blinks fiercely to clear the tears in her eyes but stopped with no avail. The stars seem to mesh in the looming sky above her, becoming pieces of a shattered puzzle. They glow brighter against the reflection of a tear, glistening with hues that almost make Pam smile. They grow larger with hope as each tear flows across the crest of Pam’s russet eyes.

As the night rolled in to stay and the autumn winds caressed her neck in goodbye, she realized crying made the stars look brighter. And that in itself gave her a new reason to cry.

The closer he came to her the closer he was to finding himself. And though this was his latest discovery and took hours to solve while staring blankly at his computer screen, it happened to be the most grueling one to except.

But recently, it seemed harder and harder for him to be around her, or even imagine being with her. It was harder for him to think of excuses to wander to her desk and what he was going to say when he got there, her eyes gazing into his. It was harder for him pass the time daydreaming of what it would be like if he could hold her hand without reason; just because he could. It was harder for him to look at her smile because he knew he had the chance to call it his.

His eyes wandered aimlessly from website to website popping in front of his dreary eyes. The computer screen was a sanctuary for his restless mind to unwind and plunge through cyber levels away from the expectedness of handling reality. His hands tapped gently on the keyboard as he responded to various emails from his family and friends, wanting to tell them more than his usual, “I’m doing fine, everything’s great.”

He stands up and stretches his long, lanky arms toward the ceiling. Yawning, he runs his fingers through his muddled hair, his grey eyes blurry from the inevitable rush of sleepy tears. The clock flickers bedtime as he glances at the small, silver frame situated on his nightstand. Tears teem his eyes as he inhales sharply, seeing her smiling face and glossy eyes stare into his. A finger brushes against the matte finish and traces along her jaw line, chin, and lips.

Suddenly, a wave of anger flushes over his mind, body and soul and he thrusts his hand ruthlessly at the frame, sending it clashing against the hardwood floor. It shatters, pieces of glass scattered as her portrait hides behind shards, her smile threatening yet oh so alluring. His hands rush to cover his face, tears trickling between his fingers as he collapses on his navy-quilted bed. He heaves through tears as he trembles with knowing it is really, really wrong that he’s wasted so many years because of her.

Unable to stop the grief-stricken pulsing in his veins, he meanders toward his bedroom window and pushes the translucent curtain aside to see the night’s view. His legs feel weak as he glances toward the stars, his throat tightening as he blinks to make his vision clear.

The entire time he knew Pam he’s been spinning out of control. Like an autumn leaf, he blows carelessly through the wind, uncontrollably lifted higher once in a while from the little perks in their relationship until he eventually begins to fall. Then finally and inevitably he hits rock bottom and that’s when he realized he had given up.

If he had to use one word to describe Pam, just one word to sum her up, it would be ‘goodbye.’ She was goodbye. No matter how much he wanted to say ‘hello’ to her wide grin, her rosy cheeks, and that effortlessly curly hair, the only thought that ran through his mind was ‘goodbye.’ He had to move forward, step toward the path that would get him somewhere other than sleepless nights and drunken dinners. He tried. He really did. But trying never seemed good enough when it came to her, and he had no choice but to swagger forward, looking back only to see if she was looking, too.

And though he never noticed, she was always looking.

He gazes up at the stars hanging in the autumn night, wanting nothing more than to get lost in their array of eternities. The stars glistened against their cosmic backdrop and shone even farther from the tears nestled in his grey eyes. They looked huge – almost as big as the things he used to call his dreams.

He remembers specifically thinking, “What comes next is up to me,” on various occasions, whether it was something insignificant like meandering to her desk to nonchalantly to discuss something Dwight had just done, or as large and significant as the night of the office’s casino party.

But now it wasn’t up to him. He tried too hard for too long and now all he could do was sit back and see if she was worth waiting for.

His fingers glided across the cold glass, streaking its freshly Windex-ed base. He sighs, his eyes clenched tight as tears seeped between his damp lashes, mourning the fall of his determination.

He glances at the stars once more before he feels like collapsing.

“Yeah,” he thinks, wiping the tears from his sore eyes. “They’re almost as beautiful as her.”

He pushes the curtain shut and sighs, hating how stars make him think of Pam. They lead him to realize that the pain of not having her in his life will never subside…but if stopped trying maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.

Her eyes flutter, greeted by the sun’s welcoming glow creeping through her translucent bedroom curtains. Her hand subconsciously flops across the bed, seeking a warm companion. It slides up and down, reaching for the man she dreamt of moments before. Slowly she opens her eyes and looks to see his wide eyes gazing at hers, but really sees that he isn’t there and never was. Then she realizes how much she wishes she didn’t have to sleep so she wouldn’t be tempted and teased with implausible dreams of him dreaming of her, too.

In her dreams she’s taller. Her hair is thicker, longer, and vibrant under the passing afternoon’s sun. Her clothes descend from elite stores like Saks Fifth Avenue and Dolce & Gabbana, her neck adorned with gems from the deepest parts of the sea. In her dreams she lives in an open field, surrounded by blossoming daisies and lush hills of grass, completely secluded from the harsh realities of the world.

But to her, none of it matters because in all of her dreams, he is there. He is standing next to her in fields splattered with greens, yellows and pinks. He is holding her small hand as she laughs at the sky and dares the sun to come closer. He is pulling her close while they lay under painted sunsets and glistening stars. He is always there.

When she finally awakes from her precious and inevitable dreams, she feels blissful; as if he was standing with her, as if he was holding her hand, and as if he was pulling her close. But then she realizes she can’t be that lucky and she doesn’t deserve him and regret tumbles over her fragile heart once again; every morning.

He’s only been back in Scranton for a few days but to her it feels like he was never there to begin with. He doesn’t say hello in the morning. He doesn’t email her pranks to pull on Dwight. He doesn’t say stupid things to see the corner of her eyes crinkle and her lips spread miles. He doesn’t spin in his chair as if he was bored only to turn and flash a smile or wink when he doesn’t think she’s looking but is. He’s not Jim.

He’s with some new girl whose name has already been forgotten. She’s perky, straight-haired, and looks as if she was pulled right out of a nine dollar business women’s magazine. It’s not fair, she thinks, that this girl waltzed into Jim’s life and immediately snatched him up for the taking. It’s not fair that this girl can call him her own when Pam’s been waiting for the day when she could walk into her apartment and see him there, waiting for her, too. It’s not fair that this girl can push it in Pam’s face when she used to own all of Jim’s facial expressions; tears, smiles, and his faithful grin.

But then she thinks, yes, it is fair, because for years she had too many chances but was overly situated in her own story to begin a new chapter for Jim to share.

She jabs the black, pasty mascara wand into its lean container, regretting the choice to put it on in the first place. It was a pointless attempt to boost her confidence and appearance when she knew Jim wasn’t going to look at her anyway. Besides, she knew the mascara was probably going to end up smeared across her cheeks; she could already feel the tears coming.

She sighs, looks at the clock and decides she better go; Michael wouldn’t be happy to know she was late for work. “You could miss sooo many calls! Then it will get hard to keep up and you will lose track of how to do things right. Thatswhatshesaid!” he explains to her too many times.

She pulls on her sky blue jacket, reaches for her purse, and is out the door, wanting to do anything but face the reality of her life.

Nothing’s been right, lately. She hasn’t laughed that much and over the years Jim’s proven that her only continuous source of happiness is laughter. She hasn’t painted for weeks, lacking any type of inspiration from her regular sources; the sunset, music, or most importantly, Jim. She hasn’t even been eating right; her usual favorite, yogurt, tastes like despair on her forgetful tongue, and Jim’s famous melted cheese sandwich she mimics at home make her feel lonely.

She hates how she let herself fall so far; always on the verge of tears, phone calls becoming missed ones because all she can say is, “You wouldn’t understand,” and sleeping away her miseries because there’s nothing in reality worth living. But most of all, she hates how she doesn’t know how to begin to pull herself back up.

Her relationship with Jim is like a ferris wheel – they started low with layers of suspense but kept building, building, building until they hit the exact, dead center and fully exposed top, only to fall again, retreating to the ground beneath, falling and falling until all they could see was the unwelcoming ground they started on. Unspoken words hover above them like thundering clouds on the verge of their rupture, causing their landing to be a slippery, confusing mess that neither of them was deserved. Palliative raindrops fall as sorrow; tears endlessly seeping from their tired eyes.

She drives down her street, feeling gloom pass over her weary eyes as she realizes she has to see him today. She sighs, saddened by this understanding, wondering if there was any way to escape seeing the man who made her tearless, the man who made her scream into her satin pillows at night, and the man who gave her a reason to hate herself.

But a day would come, she realized, when this man wouldn’t matter to her. A day would come when she would fall, tired of fighting the power of his loom and ready to smile again. There will be a lot of regret when the day comes, and she may fall asleep on a tear-stained pillow. But the sky will not fall and she will be better off for it in the end.

Her hands clench the steering wheel as tears begin to trickle down her pink cheeks, her attempt to maintain composure swept away with the reside of her tears. She closes her eyes gently, breathes in, and exhales, shards of pain lenitive in her veins.

She is a red balloon floating toward galaxies above, yearning to climb higher from the people watching beneath, but exploding with ignominious defeat as the barriers of reality and hopefulness collide. She is a dry paint brush, tired of trying to make a masterpiece of nothing and unable to dive into new colors and explore what it’s like to start fresh. She is a sailboat drifting toward the horizon, suddenly torn by harsh winds and incontrollable changes in direction, causing her to sink to lower levels of abandonment. She is scared, jaded, and defeated.

She feels the wheel beneath her hands glide to the left smoothly, wet from strangled tears. A horn blares, rattling her sore mind, but why should she care? It doesn’t matter what happens to her at this point. There isn’t any use in rebuilding something that was never there in the first place.

As white lights flash across her fear-stricken eyes, the first thing she thinks is how she could have made things different.

The best part about his morning was how he didn’t wake up thinking of her. That’s normally how his day started; unintentionally falling apart to memories of her smile, soulful eyes, and her expected willingness to step farther and farther away from him with each passing day. He was used to feeling inept as the early risen sun crept across the rough stubble on his face. He was used to hating himself for falling so hard for her when she stood sturdily away from his depths. He was used to letting a tear drip from the edge of his chin as he sighed her name into the morning light.

But this morning was different. He doesn’t know how and he doesn’t know why, but the idea of something other than Pam on his mind was enough to get him to smile. He runs a hand through his scruffy hair and yawns, almost ready to face a new day. Almost.

He places his legs on the side of the bed and sighs as his eyes wander to the shards of glass he neglected to clean up. Pam’s picture was lying helplessly, torn around the edges and covered in glistening speckles of despair. He holds his breath as he kneels against the cool wood floor, his fingers dusting the speckles away from her smiling face. He sighs, staring at the picture, wondering if he’d ever see the day when he could call her his.

He wonders what he would do if that day never came. Could he keep faking love with another woman who isn’t remotely similar to Pam? Could he hold another girl’s hand without shutting his eyes to imagine Pam’s hand was there instead? Could he move forward with a plastered smile, knowing that he failed in his attempts to convince the girl of his dreams that he was the boy of hers, too? A girl like Pam was impossible to find and it seemed like their love was just as impossible to uncover, so why should he keep washing away his sorrows and when he knows they’re going to drift over him again?

His eyes narrow as his grip on the fragile photo tightens. He lets out a strangled, irate cry and abruptly yanks the night-stand drawer open and shoves the photo into its depths. He slams it shut and exhales sharply, his large hands engulfing his face. He can’t keep teasing himself with her frivolous, gorgeous smile or her charming, expressive eyes because he knows he won’t make it.

He always insisted on the fact that he was strong. He could hold his composure when a girl recklessly spewed a breakup tangent. He could smile and act oblivious when the camera crew at the office asked him about his current relationship with Pam. He could tell Karen he loved her with a twinkle in his eye, when really he hated the sound of those words and the twinkle was nothing but an expanding tear. And though he insisted he was strong against the emotional buildup of relationships, he knew, deep down, that he was nothing but a fake, broken by some girl who just didn’t understand.

He stands and meanders toward his navy-tiled bathroom. After taking a lengthy shower and changing into his work clothes, he heads to his kitchen to prepare a breakfast that will hold him down while his mind digress aimlessly throughout the day.

Karen…well, Karen was new. That was for sure. He didn’t exactly know what to do with the idea of having a girlfriend, especially since the girlfriend didn’t have curly red hair, wasn’t too great at painting, and didn’t laugh at his jokes. Karen was a great person who was falling pretty far for him, but he had already fallen far enough for Pam. So there wasn’t really much room for him to keep falling.

Sometimes he felt bad for leading Karen to believe he loved her. It made him feel guilty; sometimes he wouldn’t call her at night because he didn’t want to risk her inviting herself over; sometimes he would deliberately starve himself at lunch just so he didn’t have to sit with her in the cramped break room; sometimes he would say he was going to visit his sister for the weekend when really he was at home staring into space, dreaming of someone else. He felt bad for it, sure, but he couldn’t let Karen get too close to him because he knew all too well what it was like to let go. Or, attempt to.

He’s out the door in a hurry because Karen hates it when he’s late. He twists the keys in the ignition and his car rumbles to life. He adjusts the radio and pulls out of his parking space, unintentionally glancing at his cell phone perched in the second cup-holder to see if there are any new text messages. Taking his eyes off the road for a few seconds, he texts Karen, “I’m on my way” because she hates it when he suddenly shows up. He sighs, pushing his bangs to the side because Karen hates it when they are in front of his eyes. He wonders why he cares so much about what Karen thinks because normally he controls his own life with his own rules, but then he realizes, oh yeah, she hates those, too.

He turns the wheel, guiding his car into Karen’s tight driveway. She’s standing on her porch when he arrives, but commences toward his car, a smile on her olive skin. She opens the door and says “hey,” her breath a small cloud in the morning air. He smiles weakly, repeating her greeting as she leans forward to push her lips against his. The repulsiveness of her touch stings his tender lips and he closes his eyes to cover a gasp. He tries to smile again, adjusts himself, and backs up, a one track of “I’ll get through this” recurring through his mind like the spinning of a ceiling fan on an oppressively sizzling summer day.

He feels constricted as Karen begins her usual morning rant about the latest Grey’s Anatomy episode, how great of a time she had with her friends at dinner, or the occasional “So I saw my ex-boyfriend...” He nods, acting like he cares about her diminutive analysis on everything that occurred in the last twenty-four hours, and continues driving because there’s nothing else to do. He sure doesn’t want to start thinking about Pam again. That’s for sure.

He’s slighted with the habitual “Is everything okay?” question as he focuses on the license plate in front of him. Karen nudges his arm, her eyes prodding into his ear because he refuses to face her. He nods, smiling feebly, yearning to tell her how he really feels. Bad idea, he thinks, recalling the last time he told her what was “going on” with him and Pam. It turned out to be disaster of colliding emotions and doubts, so he promised himself to keep his mouth shut if he knew what was best for him.

Karen must have sensed his veiled insurgency against “opening up” as she liked calling it, so she began tickling him, jostling him to at least laugh. He falls for the expected trap, not pragmatic as it may be, and dodges her tickling fingers by twisting in his seat. She jabs him just a little too hard and he loses control of the wheel for just a second, causing him to swerve into the opposite lane.

But just a second turned out to be years flashing in front of his horrified eyes as his car faced another on the open-road known as a battlefield. He calls out a profanity, holds his breath, and watches the adjacent car’s headlights swell before his eyes as he thinks “I wish I told her.”

She’s smiling. Her eyes are wide with bliss and her hand is quivering with exhilaration. Her heart is swelling and she feels like she would burst if she could. She clenches her eyes with joy in her hands and wonders if this thing of a world would pause just so she can compose herself.

She’s sitting in an open field on a tall, metallic stool. Wind is caressing her rosy pink cheeks as she smiles, welcoming the sun’s gentle rays to bask on her delicate face. Her auburn hair tumbles off her shoulders as she reaches her arms toward the rolling clouds, as if to say, “I’m here!” Around her grass grows endlessly, butterflies intertwine with vines of green, and flourishing flowers peak through patches of light, beads of dew glistening from gentle cosmic glimmers.

Directly in front of her is a blank canvas, open for her free mind to manipulate. The canvas is resting on an oak easel that is nestled in a tall patch of grass. There are a few paint brushes scattered on the easel’s underlying tray, as well as a palette of colors ranging from fire engine-red to the deepest of indigos. Her fingers trace along the minute weave of the canvas and a feeling of simplicity flushes over her, consuming her mindset and covering the deepest of facets in her supple soul. Felicity strikes her as normality in this reverie, where fields never end, smiles never cease, and art is an emotion.

Her mouth curves into a prolonged smile when she notices a man standing next to the easel. He greets her with a soft wave of his hand as his glowing brown hair tumbles in the breeze. The corners of his eyes crease and his lips widen to a smile and she jumps from the pure audacity of his gleam. Never has she felt more secure.

The man steps forward, dressed in a shirt and tie, and reaches for her hand. She willingly places her hand on top of his palm and he covers their secret bond with a laugh. He gently puts his free hand over hers and warmth radiates through her body, causing her to tingle at the realization that this is what she’s been fighting for.

An empty chair appears next to the one she is situated in and the man promptly sits, his grey eyes never leaving hers. She glances at him shyly then faces the blank canvas, her mind spinning with inspirations and adept thoughts on what to paint. He too gazes at the canvas, waiting for her ideas to blossom into the thriving masterpiece he knows she will create.

She reaches for a paint brush and dips it in the most passionate of colors – orange. It’s dark to show truth and individuality, but at the same time light to show hope and innocence. Normally, she would have chosen a mild yellow or pale lilac because taking chances wasn’t something she was used to doing. But as she sweeps her paint brush through the muddle of orange she feels liberated; finally a new beginning.

The bristles of the brush slowly pursue the threads of the canvas, politely asking permission to continue. She hesitates, peers at the man for assurance who then places his hand on her shoulder and winks, and purses her lips to stroke a crisp line against the eager canvas. She giggles as orange strikes against the stark white, thinking “nothing rhymes with orange,” just like how nothing in the reality of her life seemed to fit.

She shudders, realizing how she’s not afraid to be that girl again. She’s not afraid to fly, she’s not afraid to make beautiful mistakes, and she’s not afraid to grin wider than any time before because now she knows she’s someone different.

Sometimes it’s better to live in a world of make-believe than to live in a world where you know truths you shouldn’t and love people who don’t love you back. There were times in during her regular, wearisome life when she forgot why she was breathing out or why she was breathing in. There were times when she could not look in the mirror because she knew her tears were the only things she had left. There were times when tears burned her swollen eyes and it seemed like breaking down was the only “right” thing to do.

She commences her artistic emotions and allows them to pour through her eyes and fingertips. Her brush splashes oranges, reds, and yellows across the smooth canvas as the man beside her smiles like the moon against miles of night. Her eyes are bright and glamorous as she pauses to glance at her gorgeous surroundings and listen to the subtlest of sounds; the buzzing of an anxious bee and his friend the hummingbird, the swoosh of dozens of daises melting into their caressing winds, and the clicks and clacks of wild horses in the distance that create a melody of their own secret gossip.

Her surroundings enchant her deepest of fears and they spin in a wild fury to become captivating, free, and happy. She suddenly forgets how she struggled to smile for the prodding cameras when she felt huddled and alone, how dry her eyes seemed at the end of the day from the excessive escaping of her remorseful regret, and how she would whisper his name into her pillow when she was scared. She forgets how her name sounded as it bounded off his tongue and through his lips. She forgets how she saw her reflection in his eyes when he perched himself against her desk. She forgets every niche of him and gasps against the sun’s hopeful glow feeling incredible, open-minded, but most importantly, alive.

The brush dances with the canvas and kisses the paints. A world develops before her eyes as she continuously unleashes hidden emotions into a painting she has always dreamt of creating. She smiles profusely as she paints the scene in front of her; the perfection of it all. In her painting there is a fervent, orange sunset with a gradient so vast and aspiring it causes her to blush. There is a cliff, dazzled with sparkling evergreen-colored grasses, that ends in the center of the canvas, portraying the vibrant sunset on more levels. A woman is standing under a tree – a romantic weeping willow – and is staring into the oblivion of the day’s end. Though you cannot see the woman’s expression, you know she is smiling. The setting sun’s lower crest merges with oblique clouds and forms a heart-like silhouette, intangible and unapproachable from the woman’s reach. The painting is a masterpiece, filled with such emotional intensity it causes her heart to jump.

But a simple “jump” revives her peaceful mind and eloquent soul, and overcast sets in front of her wishful eyes. The paint brush slips from her fingers and topples to the tall, accepting grass; falling, falling, falling. She feels pain for the first time. She feels tears teeming in her eyes and her heart crackle under the humid air. And she feels the distinctive tremble of her small, pale hands when the realization that this can’t be real sets in.

Her eyes dart to the man seeking anything: a smile, an inspirational word, or guidance. His eyes linger on her lips then slowly creep to her eyes. He has absolutely no expression; no hint of emotion or meaning in his eyes, no creases on his lips or furrowed dimples on his cheeks. Her eyes widen with fear as the man’s eyes become familiar. Their hue, their shape and size strikes her as a mimic to someone she once knew. Then his lips look astoundingly proverbial to the memory of this same someone she recalls. Their tint, their curves and creases remind her of thousands of smiles. Finally, as his hair tussles with the wind, she can swear that his golden brown locks are exactly the same as someone she had painfully fond memories of.

Someone who kept her guessing every moment of every day. Someone who made her laugh when she wanted to cry. And someone who left her feeling stranded enough to believe that there is a land where make-believe is the truth.

Someone like Jim.

The man guiding her through this newfound peace is Jim – Jim. Pain strikes her perfect dream of what reality should be. Her smile vanishes beneath building layers of worry and Jim dissolves before her fearful eyes. Her painting – her majestic, beautiful painting – melts underneath the soft bristles of her unsteady brush, dissipating into the afternoon’s luminosity. Trees collapse, trembling against the cataclysmic ground and the once perky flowers blossoming around her sanctuary curl, descending toward the earth’s blazing core. Mountains disintegrate in her glossy vision, clouds rumble without ease and the sun drops, falling toward the oblivious celestial world it rose from. She stands, left with nothing, just the life she left behind.

She awakens abruptly, sterile air permeating the weak cavities of her lungs. Hospital sheets engulf her fragile limbs as she heaves in another unwanted breath. Her mind flutters to life as dread overcomes her elaborated truth. She feels her heart thump against her chest, each pulse a silent reminder of why she wanted to leave this thing she called “her life” in the first place.

He opens his eyes to see shards of glass glistening in the morning sun’s ominous glow. He is slouched against the rigid leather steering wheel, cramped from the door collapsing alongside his weak legs. From his lips oozes a red-hot syrup that drips, drips, drips, until it sloshes against the rupturing floorboards, splattering out like a firework in the summer sky. He lifts his right hand slowly toward his face and traces the edge of his rugged jaw, a slurry of blood dispersing across his fingers. He winces from the inaptness of the situation.

If only he paid more attention to the melting yellow lines in front of him rather than Karen’s all too playful laughs vibrating through his wits. If only he kept his dreary mind focused on the license plate in front of him rather than letting it slip into memories he hated to relive. If only he thought about how to put on his left-hand turn signal rather than thinking about the girl who was turning his life into a muddle of misery. If only he cared.

He struggles to sit up, needing to escape from this bizarre situation, but thumps his head on his car’s crumpling roof. He shrieks as metal meets skin and falls back into the cheek-against-the-wheel-blood-in-his-face position.

Stupid Karen. Why did she try to arouse his emotions at suc¬¬h an early hour? Why had she demanded him to pick her up every morning when he could have used those extra ten minutes to sleep instead of subliminally changing the dials on his radio? Why did she insist on “making their relationship work” when they both knew it was ready to be scrapped because he was done trying? Why did he have to fall into another endless trap he knew he couldn’t dig himself out of?

Feeling regret settle over his constricted heart, his eyes dart to the passenger seat, searching for that slender, straight-haired woman who threw them into this mess. His eyes wander to the door ajar and he hears a mix of words that are hastily spoken and packed with worry. His eyes trail the noise and he sees Karen standing a few feet away from his wrecked car with a hand on her forehead and a phone to her ear.

“Good,” he thinks, sighing gently. He closes his eyes for a moment to build up the compulsory nerve to look at the car he collided with. Placing his hands on his knees, he turns his head to the left and peers at the steaming heap perpendicular to his. He can see it’s a blue car – one of those “environment-safe” ones – with a Pennsylvania license plate on the rear bumper.

He clenches his eyes together and pushes open the driver-side door, causing a sharp hunk of metal to slash against his left knee. He gutturally moans but proceeds to step outside of his mess of a car. He gets to his feet and feels a wave of luck weave through his normally doomed self-worth as he wonders how he was left unscathed when his car was ready for the junkyard. Karen gasps when she notices him standing and he turns breathlessly and nods as if to say “yeah, I’m fine.”

He hesitantly shuffles toward the other car, praying the passengers didn’t look as ruined as it did. No matter how hurt the passenger’s are, this entire situation is his fault and it’s something he will have to live with for the rest of his life. As if a broken heart wasn’t enough.

But maybe he’s lucky. Maybe the passengers are okay. Maybe they have a few scratches like him and are going to be completely forgiving; after all, it was early morning on a viciously bright day: the sun could have gotten caught in his eyes. Maybe if they end up being hurt, the hospital will sew them up and they’ll all be able to laugh about it one day over a couple of beers. But maybe things won’t be “okay” and take a turn for the worst. “It doesn’t matter,” he thinks; he’s been in emotional pain before. He knows how to handle it, even with the frailest of hands and tearless of eyes.

But luck wasn’t on his side that day.

He steps toward the driver’s window, his breath shallow in his lungs. He closes his eyes before peering in, thinking, “this is it”. He opens them bit by bit and sees a woman in her mid-twenties with curly-red hair. He leans closer to the foggy window and presses his fingers against it. He squints, looks closer and that’s when his world collapses.

He gasps and stumbles backwards, his hands running through his hair. “This isn’t real,” he tells himself, his chest heaving to release puffs of translucent breath into the winter air. “No, no. This isn’t real. Yeah – just a dream.” He thinks as he steps forward again, his hasty breaths catching in his throat. The throbbing of his heart slows as he composes himself. “It’s not her” he tells himself. He can’t bring himself to even think about suffering pain like losing her literally.

But pain sets forth and he sees her small wearisome body hunched against the armrest. Adrenaline pumps through his lucid veins and he jolts forward, yanking at the deformed door handle. Suddenly she’s in his arms, shallows breaths caressing his red-plastered cheek, her fingers limp against his restless palm.

He’s never been this close to her. Even that fateful night after the office’s casino party didn’t compare to this, especially the fact that this wasn’t intentional. He’d always imagined her warmth radiating across his arms, neck, and chest. He’d always imagined her small fingers intertwined with his under stars and snowflakes. He’d always imagined her weight in his arms as he carried her home after a night of dancing. But he never thought those precious moments would be gathered into this one.

He whispers “I’m sorry” too many times into the nape of her neck. Splotches of blood seep through her sky-blue knit cardigan and her hair is damp with sweat. His glossy eyes scan her helpless face and he feels the tears preparing their arrival. He purses his lips firmly, closing the exit for mournful sobs and feeble cries of “please no” to escape.

The ambulance roars to a halt and two paramedics rush from its back-latched door toward Pam’s car. In one swift motion Pam is whisked out of his arms and is on the pavement, each paramedic hastily checking her pulse and vitals. He plunges to his knees, incapable of believing what is before his widening eyes. Pam, his best friend, the girl who kept him smiling, and the girl who gave his life purpose, is half-dead on a nearly abandoned road, snowflakes dancing around her red curls and melting from the hint of warmth left in her.

Another paramedic appears with a white blanketed stretcher and they lift her promptly and embed her in thin sheets. They throw words at him, as if he was competent in understanding, but he shakes his head in mystification and insists on staying with her. They deny is simple request and dart Pam to the ambulance with great urgency. Jim stands in the road, his eyes unfocused and lackadaisical as a paramedic slams the back door shut, finalizing his fears.

He stumbles to his wreck and jumps in, ignoring the broken glass and ripped leather. Karen yells something at him, but all he hears is, “ride”, so he drives off, leaving the girl who set off this catastrophe under portentous evergreens and a frosty sun.

Clouds blur against their azure backdrop and become pocketfuls of mistakes spewed across a sea of hope. Evergreen trees jump alongside the twisting road to break free from their roots and putrid beginnings before diminishing against a sharp curve. The dotted yellow line meshes into a thick rope of regret, pointing to the destination that will determine her life or death. But he keeps his eyes focused on the flashing sirens before him, knowing that if he loses her this time, he won’t get another chance.

The ambulance makes a sharp turn into a lane marked “Emergency” and barrels toward doctors awaiting her arrival. He throws his wheel to the right and his breaks squeal as he slams the shifter into park and bounds from the car’s collapsing structure. He runs toward the paramedics unloading Pam, an oxygen mask pressed against her mouth, and struggles to spit out words. He hears “low blood pressure,” and “more oxygen,” as his breathing hastens and his legs tremble. Suddenly he hates the sun for being so bright on a morning where there should be rain and darkness. He hates the assortment of pansies embellishing the narrow sidewalk into the sullen room of emergency. But mostly, he hates himself for living in “what could have been.”

Pam enters the hospital, a slew of nurses and doctors at her side. He rushes in behind her, his hand stretched out reaching for hers. His voice cracks when he shouts “Pam!” as if she would wake up to the calling of her name. Sharp hands grasp his shoulders and arms, holding him back from breaking down even farther. A doctor and two paramedics hold him back from the morose hall she is being rushed away to and he screams his regret to the white ceiling tiles.

In just seconds he is sitting in a stiff plastic chair, surrounded by toning pale walls, bleak-eyed visitors, a green plastic plant, and a pile of strewed magazines. A clock ticks and tocks above him, every pulsation a new beginning for his destroying thoughts to pervade his enervated mind. The magazines look intimidating as they scream “Read me! Read me!” while all he wants to do is mesh is fingers to his face and cry regret into his quavering palms. The waiting room’s ambiance burns his dark retinas, acting as a silent reminder of why he’s here.

Relinquishing thoughts devour his mind as minutes turn to hours as his sweating palms circulate from forehead to hair to wrapped around his restive body.

A nurse appears before him and flips his name into a question. He wearily stands and trails behind her down the hall, anguish looming overhead like a rain cloud at a picnic. Time eases into sluggish tempo and he feels like there’s more to living than being alive.

Over the years, he’s hesitated to become close to anyone. He has always been so scared to maintain a true relationship with any person because everyone who said “I’ll be there,” left. But when Pam entered the Dunder Mifflin doors her momentous first day of work, he knew that he would never had to be worried about losing anyone again. He was wrong, though, on all levels.

He finds courage in the deepest parts of his splintered heart as they approach the barren door marked “Beesly”. He steps forward, knowing this is his last chance.

Her intensive care area is surrounded by stark white walls and the uneasy sound of the machine providing oxygen. He can hear each drip and drop of her IV as it flows into her blood line, attempting to heal her broken state. The creaking of the plastic folding chair beneath him rumbles through his ears as he stares at her small hand gently placed at her side. Her tresses are loose without the strains of her usual clip and he tenderly moves a curl from her frail visage. Bruises and gashes swathe her blood-streaked face as “I did this to her,” continues on repeat in his one-track mind. He can barely hear her shallowest of breaths, leading him to understand that the cliché, “life is short” is nothing less than true.

A doctor enters the room, a white lab coat hugging his shoulders, and places a hand on his shoulder. “Get off,” he thinks because he knows an endeavor of console will not make any bit of a difference. He concentrates on her delicate breathing as the doctor gives explanation to her situation. He doesn’t pay attention because he knows no matter what she will never be the same. The doctor disappears, leaving a heavy feeling of alone to torment between his sweaty palms as he wonders if she ever wondered.

He feels like he didn’t deserve this. Yeah, he kissed her while she was engaged. It’s true that he lied when he told Karen “I love you,” when he dreaded how the words slipped from his lips. And yes, he hated himself more than anyone because of his choices. But did that add up to a tragedy of this proportion?

He pushes his hands against his face as droplets of sorrow trickle between his fingers, running down his wrist. He peers at her bleak hand wrapped in his through rushed tears and hates the sound that goodbyes make but forces himself to think of them anyway. He knows that it won’t be fair when he has to wave his hand in that distinctive path of left-and-right and shed a final tear. But he figures he’ll smile again someday and hope that the sun will shine. And maybe he will be okay for it, in the end. Besides, he’s been losing her his whole life. This will just make it real.

As the hours pass, light ascends from the dingy window parallel to her unpromising breaths. He brushes fingers against her narrow cheek, as soft as a whisper, and memorizes the pattern of her skin against his. He leans close and grazes his nose in her hair, her scent tickling his senses and becoming a memory. He looks at her closely, tears tumbling over her pale complexion, and then presses his lips on her cool forehead, his goodbye final.

He stands, tears thinning to sodden residue on his cheek, and releases her nearly lucent hand. It’s late, minutes until a new day, but he feels like the day never began because he didn’t get to see her smile. His whispers “goodbye” and she remains motionless, the cuts on her face, arms, and legs unhealed. He steps back, reluctant to overlook how she laughed in the sun, how she smiled when the skies turned grey, but mostly how she was losing herself because he couldn’t find who he was.

Life gave him someone far beyond any of his expectations. It isn’t right to suffer when it comes to an end.

He lifts his coat from the decrepit chair and staggers toward the room’s exit, the tears finally coming to an end. He places his hand on the door’s frame, and looks back, one last time. He sheds a final tear as he murmurs, “I love you,” knowing he would have been better off if he had never loved at all.

He turns to exit this mournful place when her lips part and a gush of air floods into her collapsed lungs. And that’s when he realized she was worth it.

Her name dribbles off his tongue as she hates herself for waking up. She clenches her eyes tight as he opens his wide, shock rumbling through their veins as they both realize this isn’t what they expected.

He fumbles for her hand as her eyes flutter, unaware of the florescent lights staring back at her. Tears find their way back to his grey eyes and he grasps her hand as if she was floating away.

His heart sinks to a lowly level of contempt as he realizes that this could be a hallucination. He wasn’t known to be a lucky-kind-of-guy. He was the goofy one who tripped up the stairs. He was the brokenhearted one who drank half a dozen beers to blur the memories of an uncanny kiss. He was the guy who never had it his way no matter how many times he wished on stars or prayed for something more.
So when color rushes through her pale cheeks and her body wriggles under taut bed sheets, he aches for a reason as to why this sprig of luck is suddenly thrust upon him.

Minutes ago he was feeling stranded enough to believe he would be okay when he walked through the wary hospital doors. He was on his way to convincing himself that after a couple of beers he would be able to sleep somberly, thinking of anything but the red streaks across her delicate face. He was almost prepared for the pain to finally set in during the next few weeks when he couldn’t hear her laugh or gaze at her smile. But when her eyes open for the first time and her fingers radiate under his palms, he knows that he isn’t going crazy.

She squirms, feeling nothing but warmth engulfing her right hand. She doesn’t know where she is and frankly, doesn’t care. Opening her eyes is a priority, but she knows that that would lead to facing reality. Instead, she focuses on the hand tangled with hers and wonders whose it is.

She always believed in being happy. Even if she was standing in some forbidden situation where all paths made a wrong, she moved on because someone was always hurting more than her. She always believed that crying herself to sleep wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. If there were splinters in her heart or sodden tears plastered to her cheeks, she welcomed the pain with open arms because it probably wouldn’t get worse than that. But mostly, she believed that time was the best medicine. If she collapsed under the daring sun or cried between damp sheets and wistful stars, she never regretted her choices, but fell like she’s never fallen because she knew that eventually, there would be nowhere to go but up.

So when her eyes emerge from their imminent darkness to see his eyes gleaming with tears and staring into hers, she realizes she shouldn’t have smiled like nothing was wrong, talked like everything was perfect, or acted like her life was a silly dream. Because finally, she could agree with the better half of her heart and think yeah, he was worth the ache.

She breathes deeply, hating the light seeping into her shrinking retinas and feels her skin singeing and bruises throbbing with her increasing pulse. He can sense her discomfort and tightens his fingers around hers.

He dares not say anything and keeps his tearful eyes focused on hers, hoping she’ll realize what a miracle she is to him. He feels lightheaded and wants to scream thinking of the consequences he will presumably have to pay. She’ll probably keep her distance from now on, knowing that he pushed her to the brink of an untimely fall. She’ll probably say a simple “hello” when he enters the office, just to be polite and to not overlook their prior status of best friends. She’ll probably move on and find another man, just like he found another woman, and she will be happy because she had another chance. But he’ll probably never get another chance because this was it. Her breath and the warmth of her hand are enough to marvel over; enough to keep him going for the next few months.

She feels utterly grateful for him to be there with her. If she could, she would whisper “I love you” in his ear too many times. If she could, she would reach for his face and pull his soft lips to hers. If she could, she would stand, take his hand, and lead him to her favorite veiled hillcrest and let him hear the wind, see the stars, and feel the moon. But she’s trapped to a hospital bed and is restricted from what her heart is screaming for.

The finality of his gaze hurts as she realizes how she should have told him it was her fault earlier. If she wasn’t too occupied with how red her eyes looked from crying too much in the morning, she would have said told him that she missed his laugh. If she wasn’t worried about him catching her awkward gazes during the work day, she would have told him that she needed his gazes so she could capture the uncanny feeling that he thought about her for at least a moment of his day. If she wasn’t naïve to pain and oblivious to how much she could destroy herself when he smiled at everyone but her, she would have told him that she was not able to live without the picture of his smile folded in her heart.

He begins speaking, each word pouring over her broken limbs to seal apprehensive cracks and bangs. Words like “it was my fault” and “I hate myself” feel like salt on her open wounds and seize her complacent composure. He doesn’t want to sound pathetic because he knows he’s been there with her too many times. For once he wants the words to make sense as they dangle from his lips and hover in the tense space between them.

“I’ve hated how we’ve been ignoring each other,” he says, the words stumbling off his tongue hesitantly. “And for a while, I’ve been pretending to be okay with it. Every time I saw you I felt horrible…like I had my chance but I was too much of an idiot to make something of it.”

He can feel tears but he needs to be strong. He gently pulls his hand from hers and pushes them over his face. She gazes at him, her brow creased, yearning to do more than impotently watch him disintegrate from the release of his fervent thoughts put to words.

He pauses, looks deeply into her eyes, and continues quietly, “I kind of lost my connection with the world. I just don’t care anymore. About anything.”

The moon blithely burnishes through the foggy window, revealing an overcast sky and dying stars. Animosities creep down the insipid walls and spill to an unforgiving floor, where harsh memories, tears, and regrets of “why wasn’t I a nicer person to her,” “I forgot to say goodbye,” and “I will always love you” stain unremittingly. A tremor rumbles through his weary body as she blinks with the intangible feeling of dismay perched over her chary eyes.

He pauses again, struggles to maintain composure, stares at the floor, and presses on, “So when I saw you looking so helpless and hurt because of me – because of something I did – it made me realize I had given up.”

He winces, his eyes wander from her lips to her eyes, and he says, “I hurt you, Pam. And I never thought I would hate myself this much.”

He leans forward and brushes his lips softly to her hand. She is unable to create even a hint of a smile and vulnerably looks into his grief-stricken eyes. A doctor enters for moments that seem to last for hours and states mottled words that they are scared-to-death to hear. When “release” and “just a few days” spill from the doctor’s lips, a roar of exhilaration thunders through Jim’s body as he watches her eyes vary three shades lighter. The doctor exits the cramped room, and they are compressed with overwhelming feelings of “there may be a new beginning.”

He feels like he’s thousands of feet up in the night air. She feels like screaming to towering mountains that she’s okay. He forgets to breathe when a smile spreads across her lips. She remembers how much she loves this man when his eyes linger on hers for seconds too long. He realizes he’ll never get over her because she was his to begin with and he’ll never move on because she will always be smiling for him, giving him a reason to believe. She realizes she’ll never take him for granted because she almost lost him again and she’ll never cry herself to sleep because she can say she had another chance.

He brushes his hand against his cheek to wipe away unnecessary tears. He can’t deny the butterflies in his stomach as he gazes out the window, his eyes caught in the beautiful mess of stars drifting between lucid clouds and a placid night sky. She follows his gaze and forgets her bruises, cuts, and pains because those stars are dangling from the hope she was clinging to all along.

A whimper escapes past her lips and his eyes dart to hers. He instinctively reaches for her hand and whispers, “why are you crying?” She half-smiles and opens her mouth ever-so-slightly, “it’s silly,” she struggles to reply. He tightens his fingers and gently reaches to wipe a tear from her rose-colored cheeks. He smiles gently and says, “it can’t be.”

She looks toward the stars and her eyes glimmer the colors of the mauve night sky. She feels weak as her lips part, her response tickling her tongue, “they look brighter when I cry.” Tears swell and his hands begin to tremble as he thinks, “yeah, this is her.”

Life offered them a dream beyond any of their never-ending dreams, protected hopes, and story-book wishes. For the first time in their lives they were ready to except their painful strides as beautiful mistakes and move on, knowing their hands would never again be cold, their smiles would never again be lonely, and their hearts would never again be broken. Pam and Jim’s contagious stories of lust would intertwine like pieces of a forgotten puzzle and nestle into a promise that would last them many forever’s to come.