Marsha picked up the phone. This time she made it through five of the seven numbers before slamming it back down again.

Ever since she had read the last batch of letters she'd known that she needed to do something about this situation, but it had taken her a few days to talk herself into it. After all, she didn't know Pam or Jim. And she wasn't a very out-going person. She wanted to help, but she didn't know how she could. At first, she considered visiting the Dunder-Mifflin office some time with an excuse that she needed to discuss their cleaning contract. Then when she got there she would somehow arrange it so that she could get Pam and Jim alone and sit them down for a talking-to. But that idea was quickly scrapped when she realized she'd never have the guts to go through with it.

Then she thought about somehow delivering the notes to Jim so that he would know how Pam felt about him, and could act accordingly. She liked some things about this idea, like the fact that she wouldn't have to be involved in anything more than a silent role as anonymous post-woman. Ultimately, though, she just couldn't bring herself to betray Pam's trust like that. Of course, Pam didn't know that Marsha had found the letters, so she would never know how Jim had gotten them, but it still seemed wrong. She knew that had she been in Pam's place the very last thing she would have wanted was for Jim to get these letters before she was ready to openly confess her feelings.

In the end, Marsha decided that what she really needed to do was to get a better feel for the situation. Something other than Pam's letters, that would help her figure out how to proceed. Or at least give her a clue about whether Jim would even be receptive now that so much time had passed, and he was with someone else. So she'd decided to call Dunder-Mifflin to talk to him. Now all she had to do was finish dialing the phone number.

She took another deep breath, quickly punched in the numbers, closed her eyes and waited as it rang once... twice...

"Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam." Pam. This was Pam's voice. Everything was suddenly so much more real. Pam was a real person on the other end of the phone. Her voice was quieter than Marsha had thought it would be, and a little higher pitched. It was disarming, sweet and innocent. She realized that she didn't even know how old Pam was.

"Hello?" The voice jarred Marsha out of her daydream and she quickly clicked the receiver down again.

She tried calling two more times that afternoon, but she never made it past Pam's initial greeting.

On Wednesday Marsha made an interesting discovery. After retrieving two more letters from Pam's garbage can and checking the top of Jim's desk for more clues (nothing except a note from someone named Kevin about fantasy football, whatever that was) she turned her attention to the rest of the office. She wondered what it would be like to work there. How much, if anything, did the rest of the office workers knew about Jim and Pam's past? Wandering among the other desks, glancing at assorted papers, she stopped when she saw the name on a fax.

Attn: Karen Filippelli.

Was it possible? Was this Karen? The Karen? That would explain so much. But it couldn't be. It must just be a coincidence. Plenty of people were named Karen. It didn't necessarily mean that this was the same Karen that Jim was dating. Because, honestly, how awkward would that be? Still, the possibility was disconcerting to say the least. All three of them? In the same room, every single day? Definitely awkward.

She finished out the shift still mulling over what she'd seen. When she arrived home she pulled out the blue box with all the letters in it and snuggled under the covers. Of course, she would read the new ones first, but she wanted to have the others on hand to reread afterwards. She felt like these letters were all pieces of a larger puzzle and every time she looked at them something new would appear to fill in a little bit more of the picture.

My Dear Jim,

I am enclosing this bright yellow post-it because I want you to know how much of a dork I really am. This is a note that you wrote me probably almost a year ago about a couple of files you wanted me to get for you, and I found it again this summer after you left. There's this cute little smiley face at the bottom, and at the time I just missed you so much... Anyways, I feel stupid that I've kept it for so long, so I decided to file it into the garbage with the rest of the things I'll never tell you.

Sometimes it drives me crazy that we can't just talk about all this. I mean, I know you're with Karen, and I know I probably wouldn't be able to tell you half the stuff I really need to tell you even if we tried talking because I just can't do that. But that doesn't mean I don't feel like trying sometimes. I just wish there was some way to make you understand how I'm feeling without having to go through all that. Because it just wouldn't work. I wouldn't be able to get it all out, and then you'd be wondering what I was trying to say and I wouldn't be able to explain it right. It would just be a mess.

The funny thing is, even though I know that that's how it would be in real life, I still have this perverse little dream of someday staying late after work and being the only two left in the office and just walking over to your desk and not even stopping to think before reaching up to kiss you. And then when you would inevitably pull back because you're with Karen, just like I did when I was with Roy, I'd say "Screw it Halpert!" and keep kissing you until you stopped fighting it. And everything would be so perfect and right. And I could just stop worrying about hiding everything, hiding my feelings, hiding myself. Then later we'd be lying in your bed and I'd be safe in your arms and right before I fell asleep I'd kiss you goodnight and tell you that I love you. And you'd say you love me too.

See, now not only do you know what a dork I am, but also how unhealthy some of my daydreams are. This is so sad. I seriously need to stop writing these. It's funny though. I mean I know you'll never read these letters, but I just can't seem to stop talking to you even when you're not listening. It's like having my old Jim back. The one I could tell everything to. So I guess I'll probably keep writing until I can start talking for real.

Till then,

Your Pam

Still blushing from the middle paragraph, Marsha smiled in spite of herself as she read the last line. At least now she could be sure that these letters would keep coming for awhile. Was it wrong to hope that Pam wouldn't get the courage to tell Jim, if it meant that Pam would keep writing these letters? It wasn't that she didn't want them to be happy, but these letters meant so much to her. Just having something to look forward too made her feel alive in a way she hadn't for so long. But Marsha didn't dwell on it. She had another letter to read.

Halpert,

I hate you. I love you, but I hate you. Seriously, why do you do this to me? Don't you understand how much of my mood depends on what you say as you head out the door? Okay, I know, I know. I sound completely pathetic. Just, aagh! Did you have to put your arm around her? I mean, I'm so frustrated right now. I feel like I'm just sitting here watching everything I'll never have walk out of my life. And it wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to keep watching it walk away from me every single day. At least when you were gone I didn't have to face it all the time. Sometimes I could even get away with pretending we were still friends, that you were just waiting to call me until something really great happened. That maybe I'd talk to you on the weekend or something. It was stupid, I know, but it was better than facing the truth. Now I feel like every day that I have to watch you walk away with her is a slap in the face saying "No more pretending Pam, this is reality."

Poor Pam. This letter only strengthened Marsha's resolve to do something, even if it meant the end of these letters. Especially since this one seemed to confirm that Karen really did work there. Or at least that was a strong possibility if Pam kept seeing them leave together. She read over a few of the other letters, but it was late and she knew she wasn't really thinking straight, so finally she turned out the light and drifted off to sleep.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"I need to tell you something." there was just the faintest hint of tears in that soft, innocent voice she'd heard on the phone.

"What is it? Pam are you okay?" when she didn't say anything, he continued. "Just tell me. I promise whatever it is I'll fix it. I'll make it better. Please tell me." His voice was warm and pleading.

Finally she whispered, "I'm so sorry. I can't."

Marsha woke with a start. She was disoriented, her throat was dry and for some reason she felt terribly sad. Blinking a few more times she focused her eyes on the clock across the room. It read 4:53. With a sigh of relief she rolled over and told herself not to wake up for a few more hours. As she slowly lost consciousness again she reminded herself that it wasn't something to get upset about. It was just a dream. Only a dream.