“When did this happen?” Her mother’s voice is loud in her ear, pushing through the haze that has settled around her.

“About ten minutes ago.” She can barely breathe, barely speak. All she can feel is the phone cord as she tangles it between her fingers. The desk beneath her. The cool, regulated air against her bare arms.

“Did you tell him no? That you’re engaged?” She wants to tell her mother to keep her voice down, to keep that dirty, tainted word to herself.

“No, I didn’t know what to say.” And she still doesn’t. Still doesn’t quite know what just happened.

“Surely he knows nothing can happen. Darling, you’ve been engaged for three years.”

And her mother’s voice is gentle but it almost feels like an accusation. “Yes, I know.” She is mumbling like a child. Like she has done something wrong. And she knows she hasn’t and yet the gnawing of guilt persists at the base of her stomach.

“Is there are a part of you that maybe wanted to say yes?” She called her mother for a reason, but now she almost regrets it. Almost regrets the completely nonchalant way in which her mother is picking at the truth, attempting to peek into the depths she herself won’t even go. Even through the phone, her mother can see the pieces of her daughter that she cannot admit to herself.

“Um, I don’t know, Mum. He’s my best friend.” And she tells herself that this one simple truth is all she needs to admit tonight. Because he is her best friend, but now the thought of something more lingers in her periphery, tugs at the haze she is comfortably ignorant behind.

“I’ve seen how you two get along. He’s a good guy.”

She snatches at this truth, too. Maybe if she says two true things she can avoid saying a third. “Yeah, he’s great.”

There’s a silence at the end of the line. Her mother takes a breath. Her stomach flips. “Are you in love with him, Pammy?”

And she stares at the wall in front of her and fights through the haze for just long enough to say the third truth. Before she can regret it, take it back, deny it. “Yeah, I think I am.”

But now there is a shadow moving near the door and she can hear the carpet disturbed by footsteps and then he is moving into the dimly lit office space that she thought she had to herself. “Um, I have to go.” She can her mother saying something, attempting a kind of goodbye, and she throws a response down the phone. “I will.”

And now there is nothing to protect her, to stall her, to save her from being brave, and he is walking towards her and she knows she should saying something but she has no idea what.

“Listen, Jim.” It is pathetic and meaningless but she enjoys the way his name feels on her tongue. And she thinks she has time to formulate a complete sentence because he hasn’t said anything but now his arms are around her waist and she is against his chest and he is kissing her. For a moment she doesn’t know what to do with her hands but suddenly the only place they need to be is against his cheeks and she is leaning in to him. She is overwhelmed by the smell of him, by his cologne and the scent of the warehouse and him. She can taste alcohol on his lips, knows he can taste it on hers. And for just a moment she lets the haze surround them both, envelop them in wilful ignorance. But then she remembers that these smells are not Roy’s, that this hair and skin under her hands are entirely unfamiliar even though she could draw them from memory. And now her hands are on his chest and she is pulling away and he is leaning in for one last kiss and she lets him even though she knows she shouldn’t.

He takes her hands, doesn’t let her retreat. And despite it all, he is smiling and she cannot help but return it. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” His voice is low and warm and his words are just for her. The guilt melts into the haze and for a moment she is free.

“Me too.” The truth feels strange on her tongue, a weight she is not used to. “I think we’re just drunk.” And maybe she is, because she has never felt so clear-headed.

“No, I’m not drunk.” His smile disappears into his words and he takes in her face. She lets his gaze wash over her for a moment, tries to memorise what his eyes look like this close. “Are you drunk?”

“No.” It feels so good to be honest. Almost as good as it feels to be standing like this, breathing him in and feeling his hands on hers, his skin on her skin. She wonders how long the smell of him will linger on her dress. He is moving closer, leaning down to kiss her again. And she wants him to, and she doesn’t want him to, and she knows that she shouldn’t and suddenly the haze is gone and her head is full of Roy and she stops him.

“Jim.” She blinks, looks down. Avoids his eyes because she knows what she will see in them.

“You’re really going to marry him?” And when he says it like that, she knows she is doing something wrong, but she is back in her old skin and her body is responding without her. She meets his eyes, nods, stays silent. Focuses on his fingers against her hands. Wonders if he will argue.

“Okay.” He steps back, doesn’t let her go. Stays there for a moment, runs his thumb across her skin. And then her arms are by her sides and her hands are cold and naked without him and she is alone. Alone with the dark and the regulated air and the feeling that maybe she’s made a mistake. She takes a breath and it is shaky. Her hands are shaking. She leans against his desk, folds her arms across her chest. Feels her nose tingle with the threat of tears. Closes her eyes against them.

Her fingers find their way to her engagement ring in just the same way they have done so many times before. She traces the outline, feels its familiar angles beneath her fingertips. And not for the first time, she thinks that this dainty ring represents a shackle more than it represents an eternal commitment to love and loyalty.

She wonders why it is so hard for her to be happy these days. She wonders why it takes her so long to fall asleep, and when she does she tosses around dreams of the office and Jell-O and Jim. She wonders why it has been so easy for her to ignore the swelling of her heart that makes it feel like her chest is going to explode. She wonders why her skin comes alive for Jim but never for Roy. And she wonders why it was so easy for her to nod and push him away, when she knows she should have just pulled him back in and let herself drown in him forever.

She pushes herself away from his desk, away from him. Takes the stairs down to the parking lot, into the cold and the night and the place where things should be normal. She has settled so deeply into herself that she doesn’t quite know what she is doing until she finds Jan leaning against her car, a burning cigarette in her hand.

“Jan?” She throws her voice across the parking lot, and Jan turns around in a flurry. “I thought you’d already left.”

A smile breaks across Jan’s face, but it is bitter and sarcastic and self-deprecating. “I’d planned to, but...” She shakes her head, taps her cigarette twice, watches the ash fall at her feet. “Let’s just say this whole night was a mistake.”

“I’m glad I found you, actually.” She ploughs through that last statement, afraid of what it might make her say or do or think or feel, and leans against Jan’s car. She can feel her heartbeat in her ears. “I was wondering if now is a good time to talk?”

“As good a time as any, Pam.” Jan isn’t even looking at her. She takes a long pull from her cigarette, blows out a stream of smoke in the most defeated way Pam has ever seen. One arm is tucked around her stomach while her other elbow balances on top, her cigarette dangling from burgundy nails. Pam notices how strange this executive woman looks out of her normal pencil skirt and button-up shirt. She is different, standing here smoking in jeans and a jacket. She thinks that maybe her boss is coming undone right here, just as she is herself.

“I want a transfer.” Her voice is steady but she can feel the strength leaving her legs. She focuses on the way the cool body of the car drips through her dress and settles at her hip, supporting her, keeping her upright. “I don’t care where. Just put me anywhere there’s an opening.” She doesn’t stop to think. Just says the words as they come to her.

Jan turns, just her head, and really looks at her for the first time. “Where is this coming from? I thought you were happy here, Pam. Settled.”

“I need a change.”

“A change is a new pair of shoes, a new desk chair, a different clock to stare at until 5pm.” She thinks that Jan is trying to talk her out of it. Wonders if she will dig her heels in or collapse into the habit of whatever is easy. “Are you sure, Pam? All our other branches are out of state.”

“Yes.” And she nods to enhance the effect. She holds Jan’s eyes, and for a moment she fears that her boss will turn her down. But then there is a smile tugging politely at the corner of her mouth and she takes another drag from her cigarette.

“Okay.” She nods, too. Her smile widens. “I’ve got an opening at the Stamford branch, but it’s sales. Is that the kind of change you’re looking for?”

“I guess it is.” And she wonders why Jan even offered her a sales position at all.

“Let me talk to Josh, and I’ll get back to you on Monday.” Jan offers her hand, shakes Pam’s firmly. “I’m impressed, Pam. And not a little surprised.”

“Me too.”

“I know Scranton will miss you. You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you?” She turns to lean her back against her car. Tilts her head up to look through the clouds to the few stars visible tonight.

Pam turns to the glass doors through which she has walked so many times it pains her to count. On the other side it is dark but she can easily conjure the elevator doors, the stairwell to the right, Hank at his desk and the cheap fluorescent lights. She wonders if she has it in her to miss Scranton back.

“Four years.” She sees them like a weight around her ankle.

“Aren’t you engaged?” Jan suddenly turns back to her. “Will he come with you? I’m not sure if I have room for another warehouse guy in Stamford.”

She pauses for just a moment. Considers Roy and the way in which he occupies most of the space in her life. Considers what it would be like to not be continually crowded out of her own engagement, made to fit the expectations of a man who told people they were merely dating. “No, he won’t come with me.”

“Long distance?” Jan makes a sound, and to Pam it sounds like the dying gasps of a drowning woman. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Jan.” And she means it. But Jan nods once, and Pam knows it is time to go.

For a small, insane moment, she considers venturing back inside the warehouse, getting as intoxicated as she has ever been in her life, and stumbling into a cab at some anonymous morning hour. But Stamford is a big enough risk for the rest of her life, and she settles for calling a cab while it is not yet tomorrow and driving home in silence. The back seat feels as big as the conference room with no-one to share it with and she stretches her hand into the space, noting the way empty air feels on her skin. She can smell the stale, recirculated air and the remains of an undesirable air freshener, but all she can feel is the seat beneath her and the satin of her dress against her back. She is alone. She wonders if this is the feeling she will never get tired of. Doesn’t stop to think if she is making the right decision.

She shoves her key into the lock of her front door and remembers that she doesn’t like to call this place her home. Pushes the door open into the cool darkness of the living room. Feels her way to the second door on the right. Leans against the doorframe for a moment.

This is her room, their room, the place she has spent the last six years of her life. Even through the darkness she can find the dresser on the right, stacked high with sketchbooks and cologne and spare barrettes and a hairbrush. She can see the socks and pants and underwear strewn across the floor. She can see the laundry basket she deliberately placed in the corner and has only recently refused to fill on her own. She can see the doors of their wardrobe, of the space where her life of work and not much else is laid out for her every morning. It leers at her now, sneering at her attempts at formal wear and beckoning her back into the life of pencil skirts and heels, the life she has known for so long and wants so desperately to leave. She can see the two bedside tables on either side of their bed, his empty and hers covered in pencils and another sketchbook and a tiny alarm clock. And she can their bed, and the mess he has made of it. If she tries hard enough she can imagine she sees his silhouette contorted beneath a mound of sheets and blankets, piled against his legs while her side is cold and naked.

She slips out of her shoes, out of the satin that she wishes still smelled like Jim. Pulls on the pyjamas she left underneath her pillow this morning, the same as every morning, and sits on the edge of the bed. She can hear Roy snoring, his breathing even and deep. She wonders for a moment if she is brave enough to last the night here, to lie in this bed and pretend that she has not just shed the skin she has been living in for four years, to hide her new, courageous self beneath the trappings of banality. She grips the edge of the mattress, takes in the sensation of sheets against her palms. Thinks that maybe this is one of the last times she ever has to do this. Thinks that maybe she can start to imagine a different life beyond this bedroom. Allows herself a smile.

She is not comfortable in this bed. She stares at the ceiling and sees shapes that twist and change and shift in front of her. She feels the echoes of fire on her waist, tastes the wisp of alcohol left on her mouth. And instead of closing her eyes, she wonders how long it will take before these sensations fade into memory.

“Okay.” Her hands are cold against his skin and the sensation is like a secret, like an illegal substance, a moment in time that only they have shared and only they will remember. He hesitates, runs his eyes over her slight frame shrouded in satin and shivering in this dimly lit office space. He thinks for a moment that maybe she doesn’t want him to go, but she nodded and didn’t let him kiss her a second time and this feeling of breathlessness and despair overwhelming him tells him that at last his hopes have been proven fruitless.

He runs his thumb over her knuckles, memorises in that instant the feeling of the ridges of her body against his own, then turns and leaves.

It is the hardest thing he has ever had to do, and he takes the stairs so that the elevator will never remind him of the way she nodded and didn’t hesitate and refused him again. He feels stupid, so stupid, for climbing those stairs in the first place and thinking that anything could have changed since she said those two words with what he now knows was imagined uncertainty. But he is still in love with her and with each shaking breath he is reminded that to love and to feel is to be human, but right now humanity feels overrated. What he wants, what he needs, is to be numb, to be completely oblivious to the pounding in his chest and the way his fingers are buzzing with the thrill of having touched her. Not for the first time since he has known her, but for the first time without the facade of friendship masking his intentions. He wonders how she could have been surprised by his parking lot declaration, then remembers that for all the things he loves about her, Pam is not brave. And for a moment he allows the spite to rise and fill him with anger and indignation. But in an instant it is gone, because she is Pam and he is in love with her.

He knows that now he should just go home, but he also knows that all that waits for him is a dark and cold house and a roommate who will want human interaction and a bed that is empty and enormous and the place where he has dreamt about her too many times before. He knows that she will follow him wherever he goes, maybe forever. So instead he moves towards the warehouse, to the sounds and the smells and the too many people who are hopefully too intoxicated to notice him.

Maybe getting too intoxicated himself and stumbling into a taxi to take him home after everyone else has left is the one thing he really should do tonight. Maybe it will heal his soul and brick up his heart and protect him from the way he feels whenever she looks at him. Maybe it will help him to forget the sight of her euphoria in the parking lot, taunting him and flirting with him and giving him a reason to hope. He entertains his crazed thoughts for all of two seconds before he remembers the way her vodka tasted on his mouth and he feels his own drink stir in his stomach and knows that tonight, alcohol is definitely not the answer.

He is at the warehouse door and he has lingered long enough that Toby has found him and is moving in his direction. This is a Toby he has never seen before, shrouded in the unmistakeable glow of success and prompted to give sloppy smiles to whoever catches his eye by what Jim assumes was in the empty glass Toby now clutches in his right hand.

“Hey, Jim.” Toby slings an arm across his broad shoulders and he can’t help but notice the way the difference in their heights is just large enough that the gesture feels uncomfortable. “Having a good night?”

He hesitates for a moment, crafting some kind of elaborate lie in the seconds he has before his delay becomes rude. But the lie is too complex and he is so tired and Toby smells like alcohol and other people’s cigarette smoke so he tells the truth. “I was. But I think I’ve had enough for one night.”

“I’m having a great night.” Toby gestures with his empty glass, covers the room with his hand. “I’m on a winning streak. Chasing that feeling.” He is leaning too heavily into Jim and his speech is just a little too slow, even for Toby. “I heard Pam won all your money. Gonna come back in and win it back?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’m just going to head home.” He gently leans away from Toby, forcing him to remove his arm from across Jim’s shoulders. “Have a good night, Toby.”

“Thanks. I think I will.”

He watches as Toby disappears behind Meredith at the blackjack table, watches as Kevin deals another hand in those incredibly obnoxious glasses, watches as Michael says something predictably inappropriate to Carol and earns an eye roll and crossed arms. His hands are in his pockets and he is standing in the doorway so the chill of the night is on his back and he thinks that sometimes Scranton isn’t so bad, when he is forced to remember that his colleagues are humans too and some of them aren’t even that abhorrent. For a moment the pounding in his chest slows and he really takes in the sights and smells and feelings of this scene in front of him. For a moment he thinks that maybe he can do this, maybe he can stay here and miss her and be surrounded by these people until the day he retires. And then he realises that on that day he will be alone and still in love with her and she will have children and grandchildren and a house and a family. Without him.

He turns around and moves back towards the parking lot. He hears voices, and for a moment he is terrified of being pulled into a never-ending conversation about the intensely personal details of one of his co-worker’s lives outside the office. But he rounds the corner and he can see two figures, female, half concealed behind a car. And he hates himself for the way his body reacts but the shot of adrenaline that brings the flush to his face tells him that one of these figures is her, Pam, and he finds himself taking too long to find the keys to his own car because he can’t move on and he is afraid to lose her.

“Let me talk to Josh, and I’ll get back to you on Monday.” The other woman reaches out a hand, and in the light of the streetlamp he knows it is Jan. He is confused, he is panicked, he is completely out of the loop and thinks that something very significant is unfolding before him. “I’m impressed, Pam. And not a little surprised.”

“Me too.” Pam’s voice is strong, completely certain, like the way she nodded at him in the dark.

“I know Scranton will miss you. You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you?” Jan leans into her car and looks up. He can see a cigarette in her hand, feels a twinge of concern for the mental state of his boss. Realises what she has just said. Tries to understand why Scranton would need to miss Pam if she is standing right there.

“Four years.” He sees them like they are the only years he has ever lived. He sees her and the way she looked at him on his first day, the way she smelled when she walked him to his desk even though she could have just as easily gestured in its general direction from reception. He sees her in the artificial lights and hears her answer the phone and feels her arm against his in the chairs in the conference room. He sees the top of her head from where it rests against his shoulder and feels the slight pressure of her hand against his thigh as she pushes herself to her feet against him. For four years this is all he has had. And he tries to be content with that but he is not.

“Aren’t you engaged?” The word spikes a shot of adrenaline through him, brings a flush to his face. Jan is looking at Pam again. “Will he come with you? I’m not sure if I have room for another warehouse guy in Stamford.”

He is holding his breath even though he suspects the answer. It hurts him more than he can say, more than he can ever admit even to himself, to imagine them together, married, permanently intertwined, living a life that doesn’t include him. After four years, is this the way he will remember her? Will she remember him at all?

“No, he won’t come with me.”

“Long distance? Good luck.”

“Thanks, Jan.”

He thinks that maybe he is brave enough to call out to her from across the parking lot, steel himself against the force of her gaze, demand answers as if he deserves them. But he lets her move away from him, call a cab, climb inside and vanish into the dark. And now he is truly alone because she is no longer near him, and his only options are a warehouse full of drunk office workers or his boss, so he gets into his car and pulls out of the lot before Jan can notice him.

He tries to focus on the way the steering wheel feels underneath his hands, the exact amount of pressure required to accelerate up this hill, the way the houses look as they blur past him in a smear of televisions seen through living room windows and streetlamps illuminating front lawns. The sounds of whatever radio station he happens to be tuned into are filling the car but they cannot reach him. He can feel the seatbelt against his chest, the car seat beneath him, the gentle caress of the air conditioning aimed at his face. But all he can hear are the words “long distance” and his pulse.

He can see the kitchen light through the living room window when he turns off the ignition and sits in the driveway in silence. He sits until the air from outside has infiltrated the heat he tried to cultivate and is raising the hairs on his arms. He climbs out, opens the front door, enters this familiar and comfortable and normal place that he has occupied for so long, hears the noises of cutlery against the kitchen bench and the obnoxious beeping of the microwave, too loud in the peace of suburbia at night.

“Jim?” Mark’s voice reaches him as he drops his keys into the bowl by the front door and moves into the kitchen. “I didn’t think you’d be back for hours.” He is not really paying attention. He has the fridge door open and is leaning against it with one hand, head protruding at an uncomfortable angle from his neck as he tries to conjure some kind of edible substance using only his willpower. Jim doesn’t need to look to know that the fridge has been close to empty for days.

“Yeah, it got boring pretty quickly.” He reaches over Mark, pulls out a beer and leans against the counter to drink it. “Looks like you’ve had a pretty exciting night, too.” He takes in the empty pizza box on the counter and the three empty bottles of beer. Locates a dirty spoon in the sink and imagines the carton of ice-cream that matches.

“Well, I don’t have a fancy office job that requires me to attend fancy casino nights in fancy warehouses.” Mark turns to him, winks, as if he didn’t get the joke. But he cannot joke right now, just sips his beer too quickly and concentrates on the way the angles of the counter feel against the small of his back. “Hey, man, are you alright? You look... pale.” Mark closes the fridge and the absence of that extra light is confusing for a moment. Jim turns his attention to the bottle in his hand, tries to ignore the feeling of Mark’s eyes on him. But there is nowhere else to go and nothing else to do and Mark is his roommate and a good guy.

“Tonight didn’t really go how I expected it to,” he begins. Takes another swig of beer to stall the inevitable. “I just heard some news I wasn’t prepared for.”

The microwave beeps and he jumps. Mark turns, removes a drooping slice of pizza and tears off a bite immediately. Notices Jim noticing him. “Did you want some?” His offer is half-hearted and has the feel of something compulsory, but Jim smiles anyway.

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

Mark inhales what looks to be a third of the pizza in his next bite. “So, what was the news?” His words are barely intelligible around the mess of bread and pepperoni and cheese in his mouth.

“Just that someone I work with might be leaving.” Might be. Maybe she will stay. Maybe.

Mark doesn’t answer, and it looks like he is trying to determine why it is so devastating that someone who sits a couple of feet away in the same office building may be getting a different job. Jim tries to look at it that way, too, tries to see it in a way that doesn’t feel like open heart surgery with no anaesthetic. But as he finishes his beer and sets it down on the counter with a clink, all he can see is her and all he do is wonder if that was the last time.

“But, you’ll keep in touch, right? You can grab their number, or email...” Mark is so clearly out of his depth and floundering in his lack of knowledge about the situation that Jim just smiles and shakes his head.

“It’s not quite like that.” And briefly he considers sharing everything, telling his roommate about the love of his life, but Mark is already taking his pizza back to the living room as if he knows what Jim is thinking and is actively avoiding it. But he knows that’s his imagination. Just like he knows that most of what he has thought to be true about other people has turned out to be his imagination. Misunderstood. Misinterpreted.

“I’ve got the DVD of that zombie apocalypse movie,” Mark offers through the wall.

“I think I’m just going to head to bed.”

“Okay.”

His room is dark like it always is and there are still clothes on the floor and his bed is a tangle of dirty sheets. He falls onto his back in his clothes and shoes and stares at the ceiling, stares at the peeling paint and the lines where the ceiling meets the walls and the metallic circle of the light in the centre. He holds his hand in front of his face and tries to outline his fingers in the darkness. He arranges the pillows underneath his head in what he hopes is the perfect configuration for maximum comfort. He looks over to where he knows his bookshelf is and where the yearbook is and where she sat on this same bed and looked at it and smiled and called him dorky and looked so normal in this, the most personal of spaces. He holds that memory that a butterfly on his finger and turns it over, admires it from every angle, solidifies it so that it will never fade. And then the butterfly is gone and he is still alone in the dark lying on his bed fully clothed and the pounding has returned to his chest and he has never felt so lonely.

She carries her anxiety like her mobile phone. It sits in her handbag, in her periphery, in that place in her mind that she can’t quite reach but easily invades every other thought she has. It weighs on her chest, makes her hands shake, brings an uncertainty to her voice that emphasises the existing lack of confidence to the clients she speaks to on the phone. She forgets Kevin’s extension, patches a client through to Stanley instead of Phyllis, forgets how to put a call on hold while she fumbles with her computer mouse for too long. She carries her anxiety like an oxygen tank most days, an appendage she cannot function without, but today is the worst she can ever remember being. She admonishes herself for it and feels worse.

It is 10:18am when the phone rings and she is forced to abandon the game of solitaire she is playing out of habit rather than interest. The moment she looks away from the screen she forgets what she was doing and has to take a moment to remember her usual line of greeting before answering the phone.

“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.”

“Hey, Pam, it’s Jan.”

She hears herself take a loud breath and steadies herself against her desk with her free hand. She swallows, feels her anxiety settle around her and disturb her stomach.

“Hi, Jan.” She doesn’t know what else to say. Cannot remember what the usual conventions of telephone politeness are. Cannot decide what she wants Jan to say to her.

“I’ve spoken to Josh about your request for a transfer, and he’s more than happy to have you on board in Stamford.” She pauses, and Pam can hear papers brushing against each other with the echoes characteristic of the glass-encased Corporate offices. “Can you start on Monday?”

“As in, the Monday six days from now?” She forces herself to take another breath, to focus on the way her knuckles are stretching against her skin and colouring it white, to keep the phone receiver pressed firmly against her ear so she doesn’t miss anything of importance in her panic.

“Yes. Will you be available then?”

“Um, yes, yes, of course.” She nods, remembers that Jan can’t see her. “Of course, I can.”

“Great. Now, can you patch me through to Michael? I need to get him up to speed on the logistics of this transfer and finding your replacement.”

“Uh, sure, not a problem, just- just give me one moment.” She finds the transfer button, presses it, hesitates as she finds the place in her brain where Michael’s extension should be entirely blank. But there it is, tucked away behind the thoughts she didn’t know she had about Stamford and the transfer and leaving and moving and being somewhere that isn’t Scranton, and she taps it into the phone and hears his voice through the receiver and through the glass of his office and transfers Jan. It is over, it is done, it cannot be taken back. She feels her limbs trembling with the familiar adrenaline of risk-taking behaviour and wonders again whether she is doing the right thing. Realises that it doesn’t matter anymore, there is no going back. There is only forward, away from here, into a new life. What has she done?

She stands, pushing against her desk with both hands in case her legs can’t support her. She hears the phone ringing but it is far away, muffled and distant and not her concern. Her arms find their way to her chest, crossed over each other as they always are, as she takes the requisite number of steps to get herself from reception to the kitchen. To a cup of tea and what she hopes will be a moment of silence.

She nudges the door open with her hip and leans against the sink. She takes in the bathroom doors in front of her, the wall and the paint that has been the same colour the entire time she has worked here. The waste bin in the corner and the inordinate number of magnets on the fridge. The oversized bucket of cheese puffs on the top of the freezer that looks to her now like a feature central to the structural integrity of the building. The noticeboard and small round table on the other side of the room and the dirty mugs in the sink left over from before the weekend and the coffee machine and the microwave she has cleaned out more times than she can count. She thinks that there will come a time very soon when she will stand here for the last time, taking in these aspects of her life that she has grown so accustomed to that she can hardly remember what life was like without them. She thinks that maybe she will be sad to see them go, to leave them behind in her brand new life. But she decides that she will only miss the comfort of familiarity, because this building is ugly and the coffee is too bitter and the waste bin always emits some kind of indeterminable odour.

The door swings open and she slides across the counter to make room for whoever has interrupted her to use the toilet or scan the fridge aimlessly to avoid paperwork. She turns to face the bench, pretending to reach for the teabag she no longer wants, but the figure in her periphery does not use the toilet or scan the fridge and she feels the weight of her social obligation to greet them too strongly. She looks up, a half-hearted salutation on her lips, but there is Jim with his sleeves rolled up and his hair sticking out behind his ears and she thinks that the last time she saw him he was standing in the bullpen in the light of a desk lamp and he smelled like winter and tasted like alcohol and was so close she could make out the pores on his nose.

“Hey,” he says, assuming his position against the wall opposite her. For a moment, the sound of his voice and the sight of his face make her forget the anxiety that is curled up in her stomach.

“Hey.” She offers a weak smile, unsure of what he expects from her, how he wants her to act. Turns to completely face him with her back to the bench. Folds her arms again because that is the only thing they know how to do.

“So, I heard you talking to Jan on the phone just then.” His voice is jarring, free from any attempt at small talk to conceal his intentions. She stands straighter against the sink. “And I saw you talking to her on Casino Night.”

“You followed me?” She doesn’t know whether she means it to be a joke or an accusation. Jim reacts to the latter.

“No, but I hung around to see what you were talking about. It seemed pretty serious from where I was standing.” His hands are in his pockets, like they always are, like she has seen every day that she has known him. She can see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows, the way his jaw is set as he waits for her to respond, the way he leans into the wall as though that is a genuinely comfortable way to stand.

“We were just talking about girl stuff. You know, periods, ovulation, waxing, all those things.” Her attempt at diffusive humour just invites more awkwardness into the room. She picks at an imaginary loose thread on her shirt to avoid his eyes. Feels them on her skin like his hands were.

“Pam, c’mon.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t release her. “What’s going on?”

“It’s really none of your business. And I don’t want to talk about it right now.” She is being petty and childish and so cowardly that for a second the acid of self-loathing sears through her. But to talk about this with him right now is just a little too much.

“I think you owe it to me, to be honest, just this once.” He hesitates and, prompted by weakness, she dares to look up at him. He catches her eyes with his own and she is frozen. “After what I said... after I was honest with you, I deserve the same.”

“Are you serious?” Now her cheeks are coloured with indignation and she allows it to animate her voice, doesn’t try to disguise it. “You tell me you love me, then kiss me while I’m engaged, and that entitles you to some deeply personal truth from me?” And as she speaks she remembers that she doesn’t regret that kiss at all, keeps reliving it and dreaming about it and analysing it so she never forgets. Because she is a coward and the truth is something her mouth is not familiar with. And yet she doesn’t try to leave, because she craves the sound of his voice even if it is expressing his hurt and anger.

“That kiss was anything but one-sided.” He is holding her gaze and clenching his jaw and she remembers the way his hair felt under her hands. “But even if it was, we’re friends, and friends tell each other things like this.”

“Like what? What is it exactly that you think I’m keeping from you, Jim?”

“I don’t know! That’s the point! Something has got you anxious and jittery and I want to know what it is!” His voice is loud now and it fills the room. He pauses, takes a breath, speaks softly. “Because you’re my friend and I care about you.”

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, knows that he is telling the truth.

“Don’t be like that, Pam. Just because I was stupid enough to tell you how I feel doesn’t mean that the last four years have meant nothing at all.”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust herself to speak. She can feel the balls of her feet aching in her shoes, can feel the pinch of her pencil skirt around her waist. The air is cold and easily finds it way to her skin through her cardigan, raising the hairs on her arm, prompting her to run her hands up and down her arms in a useless attempt to avoid speaking. Her fringe sweeps across her face as she looks at her feet and she pushes it back behind her ear even though she knows gravity will only tug it down again.

“We’re friends. I think I’ve made that very clear. And I would really appreciate it if my friend would give me some time to process my conversation with Jan on my own before I go sharing it with everybody in the office.” She is speaking to the floor because she doesn’t trust herself under the feeling of his eyes on her face.

“I’m not asking you to share it – whatever it is – with everybody in the office. I’m asking you to share it with me.” He, who made her a sandwich and swayed with her in the cold and leaned against her desk and told her they’d had their first date. He, who hung up her call with a client so he could update her on some very significant developments pertaining to a running prank on Dwight. He, who stayed late when everyone else went to Poor Richard’s after work and she hadn’t finished her filing. He, who knows her better than anyone else she has ever met and has never once made her feel anything but intelligent, funny and just a little bit desirable.

Maybe she does owe him this. And maybe she owes him nothing because she is engaged and he is her friend and she isn’t even really sure what is happening at the moment.

“Fine.” She slumps into the bench at her back, looks at his feet and the wall and his shoulder. “I asked Jan for a transfer to Stamford and she told me this morning that it had been approved. I start on Monday.”

And she finds herself searching his face for some kind of indication to how he is reacting, what he is thinking, what he thinks of her. And she hates herself for caring but she does, she cares so much about how he feels about her, about how he makes her feel, about knowing that he will give her that half smile that lingers for a second too long and lets her know that this is his special smile just for her, that he has shared with no-one else, that can communicate a thousand things because at this point they can essentially read each other’s minds.

But that look is noticeably absent from this conversation and he is just looking at her and he doesn’t know what to say and she immediately regrets those three short sentences and wishes more than anything that she could just go back to Thursday before he loved her and before she knew and before things were weird because honesty has invaded their carefully constructed facade of friendship.

“Why?” His voice is so soft and she has to lean forward to catch his single syllable.

“I, uh...” Why? “I just needed a change.”

“A change? A transfer is not a change, Pam. It’s a completely new life. You’re moving to a different state. You couldn’t have gotten new sneakers?”

“That’s what Jan said.”

“And did Jan say that you’re being completely irrational?” His voice is getting louder, getting harder to listen to. “How could this possibly be your solution? How is moving three hours away better than just dealing with stuff here? Why are you always running away, Pam?”

“I’m not running away. There’s just nowhere for me to fit here anymore.”

“You don’t mean that.” His eyes are on hers. “And you know it’s not true.”

“What, because you’re here? That’s supposed to make everything else just go away?” She is being so snarky and bitter, so rude and callous, but suddenly she can’t stop.

“I thought our friendship was enough.”

“Enough for what? Jokes during conference room meetings and pranks on Dwight?”

“I just thought that I was enough to get you to stay. Even if you married him. Even if we were only ever just friends. I thought those jokes and pranks were enough to get you to love Scranton and Dunder Mifflin and stay.”

And she hates herself because he is right but she is moving and she won’t allow herself to take another risk on top of this one. Because this is what she does, she lets things build and build until she is completely irrational and takes an enormous, uncalculated risk with absolutely no thought to the consequences if she proceeds. And this time the risk is permanent and the consequences are irrevocable and he is pleading with her to just think for a moment and she can’t because she knows exactly what will happen if she does.

“I’m sorry, Jim, but for once I made a decision without thinking about you. I’m doing what’s best for me.” She is lying. She hates it.

“No, Pam. All you ever do is think about yourself and what’s best for you. And then you go and do the complete opposite, ignoring all of your friends in the process.”

“You mean, ignoring you.”

He sighs. He looks different now. “When I asked you if you were still going to marry him and you said yes, you chose yourself again. And you’re not even treating yourself right, because he isn’t going to make you happy.” He stops, swallows the words he was about to say. Looks at her and says them anyway. “I can. I would. But if you’re going to go through with this completely idiotic plan and move to another state because you can’t admit to yourself that I’m right, then go ahead. But I won’t be staying around to watch.”

He pushes off from the wall and throws the door open and crosses the bullpen and now he is gone and he is not her best friend and in the cold silence of the kitchen she realises that for the first time in four years she is truly, absolutely, completely alone in her stupidity and self-loathing and cowardice. And it is that cowardice that keeps her there, keeps her from following him and pleading with him and apologising and winning back that half-smile. Because she has rejected him so many times and now he is done with her and it is all her fault.

And she realises that there is one thing in her life that she can control, one thing she can totally destroy and feel not one shred of remorse about, one thing she can take and end and be done with and not carry around its charred remains with her for the rest of her life. Is she going to carry Jim around for the rest of her life? She thinks now that maybe she just might.

She leaves the kitchen, crosses the bullpen, takes the stairs down to the warehouse. It is cold, like always, and enormous, like always, and she feels as small as she always does as she enters this space that she really does not belong in. He is there, watching her, seeing her before she sees him, and it takes a moment for the weight of his gaze to break through the fog of her thoughts.

“Hey, Pammy.” He opens his arms, folds her into them, smells like oil and grease and dust and paper. “What are you doing down here?”

She escapes from his grasp, folds her arms like a shield across her chest. Looks him in the eyes and pretends she feels nothing for him at all. “I asked Jan for a transfer to Stamford last week and she called me this morning to let me know that I start on Monday.”

He is silent and she is silent and she can feel her heartbeat in her mouth and thinks for a moment that maybe she is going to throw up right here on the cement. Is this really happening? Is this really her solution to years of indecision?

“What do you mean?” He isn’t looking at her.

“I mean, I’m moving to Stanford and you’re not coming with me.”

“So, like, long distance? For how long?” He is more confused than he is upset or emotional. She isn’t sure why she expected anything else.

“No, not long distance.” He is suddenly so close and she steps back but she can still smell him and feel the way his arms contorted her to fit against him. “I’m going to Stanford and you’re staying here because we’re not getting married.”

She has his attention now. He is actually looking at her with a focused and deliberate gaze. She tries not to shrink beneath the weight of her consequences. “What the hell, Pam? Are you seriously doing this now? I haven’t even had lunch yet.” She thinks he is done but then his head snaps up with a sudden epiphany. “Is it Halpert? Has he... made a move?”

“Really, Roy? You think the only reason I could make a decision on my own is if some other guy claimed me?” And the disdain in her voice is only disguising the tremor of truth because yes, it is Jim, it is him and not Roy and she is running away from him instead of toward him and she is trying to convince herself right now that this is the best thing to do and for just a second she can agree that it is. “This has nothing to do with Jim. I’m doing this for me. I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago.”

“So that’s it, you’re just... dumping me and moving three hours away? And I don’t get a say?”

“You’ve had your say for the last nine years, Roy. That’s the problem.”

And she is being slightly too dramatic but she turns and finds her way back up the stairs before he can say anything and she imagines for a moment that she has left him with his jaw open and his arms slack by his sides and his heart audibly shattering with the pain of losing the best thing that ever happened to him. But she knows Roy, and she also knows that the minute she was gone he went back to whatever sexual banter he was engaged in with Darryl and all the other guys whose names she doesn’t know and now she is nothing more than a minor inconvenience.