Monday and Tuesday came and went and Pam was still scratching her head over those letters. By Wednesday she had decided to just ask Jim about them--but casually, like they were no big deal. Maybe his reaction will give him away, she thought. And if the letters weren't coming from Jim, then at least she would know that, and she would be able to keep herself from getting little tingly chills every time she read "Love, The guy you're supposed to be dreaming about."

Was it completely ridiculous that she was getting chills over a letter that had been written by a sixteen-year-old? Probably. But if they were from Jim...

She turned back to her unusually cluttered desk with a sigh. Michael had been strangely productive in the last couple of days, and that meant she had some actual work to do this morning. She hoped this productivity wasn't a reflection of the fact that he was dating Jan, because if it kept up, her Sudoku scores would definitely start to suffer.

She tried to focus on her work, but in her head she spent the morning practicing dialogue. She wanted to bring it up naturally, so Jim wouldn't think she was being strange if he really knew nothing about it. She had decided to ask him at lunch. She knew Karen had plans to meet with a client for a business lunch and she didn't know when she'd get a better opportunity.

-----

Jim munched on his sandwich, trying not to think about the way Pam had smiled at him as he had left his desk to eat lunch. The break room was unusually crowded; it seemed like Karen was the only one who had left the office that day. Almost everyone else was crowded around Kevin and Kelly who had gotten in an argument over which American Pie movie was better. Sadly, it seemed that everyone from Michael and Meredith to Creed and even Oscar felt the need to weigh in on this critical issue. Jim just sighed and took another bite of tuna.

He was staring at the clock, calculating the number of minutes before he could reasonably expect to leave for the day without getting scolded by Dwight, when Pam walked in, holding a brown paper bag and a can of grape soda. He didn't realize it, but his breath caught, and it wasn't until she sank into the chair opposite his that he remembered to start breathing again.

He silently reprimanded himself; grape soda could mean anything. And the break room was crowded. There was no reason to think she wanted to be with him just because she had sat down at his table. Ever since he had started reading Pam's letters, it was becoming harder and harder to be around her without feeling things that he had sworn he would never let himself feel again.

Without realizing it, he frowned slightly. He couldn't do this. He couldn't let himself get so caught up in her. If he let himself think about her like that, there would be no turning back this time--he would have to have her, or he'd go insane.

But he had Karen now; he just couldn't let it happen, no matter how much he might secretly want to. So even in something as simple as a conversation over lunch in the middle of the break room, he was determined not to be the one to make the first move.

-----

She had meant it as a peace offering--or at least a conversation starter--but as she twisted the tab on the soda can, she couldn't escape the slight scowl on Jim's face. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

Jim looked away when she met his glance and Pam was just about to get up and leave when she heard herself talking instead.

"Hey. Are you mad at me?"

"What? No," he said, though she noticed he was still scowling. "Why would you think that?"

"Nothing. Sorry. Never mind." She felt the conversation slacken again, and she knew she had to ask him now, or she'd never go through with it.

"So, hey," she began, and when he looked up and she held his eyes for just a second before lowering them back down to the table.

"Um...the weirdest thing has been happening lately," she quickly blurted out before she could stop herself again.

"Really?" She wasn't sure, but she could've sworn he sounded relieved that she'd resumed the conversation.

"Yeah. I, um, I've been getting these letters for the past couple of weeks..."

When he didn't respond she checked his face for a reaction, but the look he wore was guarded, with an overlay of confusion. He still didn't say anything, so she knew she'd have to keep talking if she wanted to get to the bottom of this.

"Uh, yeah. It's so bizarre. They've just been lying on my desk when I come in to work, and the weirdest thing is that they're not signed or anything. They're from some guy, though, and they're addressed to his dream girl. But he must have written them a long time ago, because they're from him as a teenager or something. It's really strange..." she trailed off, hoping he'd jump in with some sort of reply.

"Huh," he said finally. "That does sound weird. Um, I'd better get back to work. But, hey, good luck with that."

"Oh. Okay." She would've added something about talking to him later, but he was already out the door.

Pam just sat there for a few minutes, absently tracing the top of the soda can with her finger, trying to figure out what his reaction--or lack thereof--meant. I must have been wrong, she concluded. Those letters aren't from Jim.

She tried to keep the disappointment from showing on her face, and even managed a small smile when Angela sat down next to her, mumbling under her breath about the "practically pornographic" movies that certain people felt the need to discuss in a public workplace.

She shouldn't have gotten her hopes up. Thinking those letters were from Jim had been stupid. You are so pathetic, Beesly. Why can't you get that he doesn't want you?

-----

Staring at himself thirty seconds later in the men's room mirror, Jim tried to wipe off the deer-in-headlights look that had been plastered on his face since he left the break room.

She knows. She knows everything! What am I going to do now? Marsha! How could she do this to me! I thought we had a deal. I can't believe she gave Pam my letters. What was in those letters??? I have to stop this. What am I going to tell Pam? His thoughts kept racing and he groaned aloud a few times, thankful that no one else was around to hear.

After a few minutes his panic had died down, and he knew he'd have to go back out there. With a sigh, he opened the door and managed to make it to his desk without running into anyone. He couldn't help glancing at Pam's desk, but it was empty. She was probably still on her lunch break.

All afternoon he kept his eyes trained studiously on his monitor. He thought if he could just make it to five o'clock without having to talk to Pam again, he could get home and try to figure out what to do next. He got an email from Karen at 4:30, inviting him to get drinks later, but he knew that if he went he’d just end up spending the whole night obsessing about those letters. He sent back something about not feeling well, and did his best to ignore the guilt in his gut when she came over with a hug and offers to nurse him back to health.

He knew she was just trying to be nice, that she was trying to be a good girlfriend, even when he was basically treating her like crap. But right now, he couldn't stomach the idea of pretending to enjoy her company when what he really needed to do was figure out what was going on with Pam.

How had his life gotten so screwed up? He never should have let his curiosity to see Pam's letters drive him to agree to Marsha's plan. He should have known Marsha was crazy, that she would end up giving his dream girl letters to Pam, just like she was delivering Pam's letters to him.

As soon as he got home, he called Marsha, but he just got her answering machine. He tried to sound calm as he left her a message, urging her to call him back as soon as possible, but the panic had returned as soon as he left the office, and he knew she would probably be able to tell from his tone that something was wrong.

He called her eight more times that night, and left two more messages. Marsha never picked up.

Around midnight he gave up and spent a few hours telling himself to fall asleep, but even as he kicked at the sheets in frustration, he was unable to keep thoughts of Pam out of his mind long enough to relax.

When his alarm went off, he suddenly realized that it was Thursday morning. He sat up in bed with a jolt. He hadn't remembered it until then, but Marsha had been scheduled to clean the office last night. He raced to the shower, determined to make it into work before anyone else. He just hoped that the letter Marsha had surely left him would prove more illuminating than the others. With any luck, it would give him a clue as to how to proceed, now that he knew Pam was getting his letters.

But when he got to work, there was nothing on his desk. Not even an acknowledgement from Marsha that she had gotten his messages or a note about the fact that he had failed to leave a dream girl letter.

He hadn't forgotten about the letter from himself at age twenty that he had typed up on Tuesday night. At the time, he had enjoyed the process of going over his old letter, correcting the spelling, and turning the practically illegible handwriting into a crisp typed epistle, that would ensure another letter from Pam.

But after his conversation with Pam yesterday, he hadn’t wanted to give Marsha another chance to make things worse. Until he found out exactly what was happening to the letters that he had been putting in the garbage, he wouldn’t be leaving any more of them.

And apparently Marsha had responded in kind; he checked again, under his keyboard, beneath his desk, even in his own garbage can. But the can was empty. Marsha hadn't left anything. Now what?

-----

Pam knew something was wrong with Jim, but she couldn't bring herself to ask him what it was. Their conversation yesterday had been awkward, to say the least, and though she wanted to help him, she felt like things were still a little weird between them, and she didn’t want to make it any worse. For her part, Karen hadn't seemed to notice anything unusual in Jim’s behavior. In fact the rest of the office seemed completely oblivious to the tension in his posture that was so apparent to Pam from where she sat.

He'd hardly moved all morning, and it was making her nervous. Maybe he was sick. Maybe she should go say something. As much as she wanted to though, her courage had been used up by yesterday's conversation. Instead, she settled on something familiar. Picking up her blue pen and the little tablet of paper she used for taking notes, she began to write.

Dear Jim,

I hope you're okay. You don't look like you're having a good day, and I wish there was something I could do to help, but you've been so distant lately... I know that shouldn't matter. I guess if I was really your friend I'd go over there and try to cheer you up, just like you used to do for me when Roy was being a jerk.

Sometimes I still can't believe you could do that. How could you be such a good friend to me when you really wanted more? I guess maybe you weren't always in love with me. That would make more sense anyway, because I can't understand how you could possibly be in love with me the whole time we were friends, and not do something about it sooner. Not when we were so close.

So when did you start loving me? In case you're interested, I think I've loved you ever since you showed me the bonus presents inside my teapot. Of course, I spent months denying it to myself. But if I think about it, that's the first time I really... knew.

Anyway, this is hardly appropriate to be telling you under the circumstances, (Karen just stopped by to ask for her messages) but I guess the fact that you have a girlfriend hasn't stopped me so far, so I'll just say I loved you then and I love you even more now, and if there's anything I can do for you, I hope you'll let me do it.

Always yours,

Pam

-----

Friday was one of the longest days of Jim's life. He still hadn't heard anything from Marsha, and he knew that Karen was getting more and more upset about the fact that he wouldn't tell her what was bugging him. By lunchtime Karen had stopped speaking to him altogether. He dreaded the conversations he'd have to endure as penance, but he still didn't feel like pretending that everything was fine, so he let it slide for now.

Finally, the afternoon was over and without even pausing to talk to Karen or Pam, Jim hurried downstairs and across the parking lot to his car.

His apartment was dim with the blinds closed, and he felt exhausted. As much as he wanted to just fall asleep, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it if he tried, so instead, he changed out of his suit and into some jeans and an old sweater. He tried calling Marsha one more time, but--although it frustrated him--he wasn't that surprised when she still didn't answer.

He passed the kitchen table on his way to the couch and picked up the stack of bills and ads he'd collected from his mailbox. Plopping down on the couch, he leafed through them. He was about to turn on the TV when he noticed a thick, manila envelope in the stack of mail.

The handwriting on it seemed vaguely familiar, and the return address was in Scranton. He opened up the envelope and took out a stack of papers. On top was a letter from Marsha.