Out on calls with Michael, he came into the office as most were going out. Coat in her hand, Pam's smile said she knew how tired and frustrated he was. His eyes followed her as she left, his heart walking out with her. Stop wishing, he thought. Stop wishing.

A wax bag sat on his desk. A large chocolate chip cookie and a note:

It was a long day without you.

It's her handwriting. He smiles. His mind tells him not to be this happy over her small gesture. His heart tells him maybe it's okay to start wishing again.

He puts his lunch on the table, along with his water. Sitting alone he opens the brown bag, spilling out his napkin, his sandwich, his banana. A folded up sheet of yellow paper falls out, too.

He remembers loving notes his mother once put in his lunch box, back at least fifteen years ago. He unfolds the paper, curious. The words touch his heart, a break through deep defenses.

No one makes better grilled cheese sandwiches than you do. I miss them - and you.

He eats his turkey sandwich, and thinks ham and cheese is starting to sound good again.

Jim's ready to leave when Pam hands him a gift. “Merry Christmas,” she says shyly.
It's a colored sketch of them sitting in their roof chairs watching fireworks.

Jim notices two important details. First, she drew them holding hands. Second, she wrote at the bottom:

You will always be my best friend. Please let me still be yours.

He looks at Pam, her face hesitant and nervous. He smiles warmly, then wraps her in a tight hug. He's missed their connection.

He asks about her Christmas plans.

They'll have lunch together on Christmas Eve.

It's a start.

She's been looking at him all day. Something behind her eyes makes him feel uneven. But it's better than the numbness he's had since being back.

"Is there something wrong?" he asks, courage arriving as he's heading for home.

"I'll know shortly," is all she replies.

In the elevator, he looks for keys in his coat pocket, but he finds a white paper crane, creator known. She wrote on one wing:

Understand this - I can, I do, I always have.

He waits, leaning against her car. Finally there will be a parking lot conversation that ends the way it should.

Jim found the red envelope on his desk. Inside was a watercolor she'd created on heavy linen cardstock, a mass of swirls and hearts and colors.

To My Valentine, Pam wrote. For today and forever.

He wore the red tie she jokingly gave him that morning. He walked over, placing a pink envelope in front of her. She smiled.

“What's for tonight?” He asked, leaning across the counter.

“Dinner, movie, then the usual.”

“The usual?”

“What valentines usually do together after dinner and a movie.” She said meaningfully.

“And are the first two optional?” He asked, his heart racing.

“Absolutely.”