"And what if I am?"

His heart stops. His ears pop, any and all sound sounds deflected, hidden. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. "Are you?" He can't figure out how he made himself speak.

"Am I what?" She wants him to say it. She doesn't think she could handle it if one of them were to misinterpret this conversation.

"Are you breaking up with me?" His eyes are trained on hers, which are trained on her drink. She's staring into her cup as though there were some whirlpool inside, sucking the straw and ice and air bubbles down into nothingness. His stomach drops.

"I thought I was," she confesses. "I don't know. I really liked where we were headed, Jim--"

"Me, too," he cuts her off.

"Stop. Let me talk." She sighs. "I liked where we were headed. I thought that...We just never did get the timing right, really, and then there we were, and it was perfect. We were perfect..." She trails off.

"Can I talk now?"

"No."

"Mm." He nods.

"And then you closed up. I'm not the kind of person anymore who can just keep things bottled up. I thought you knew that, since it nearly got you killed. Even if you didn't want to talk, I felt like I needed you to know. I didn't need to know as much as I needed to say, but it would've been nice if you could've at least met me halfway!" She hisses the last sentence. He stares at her for the longest time. "You can talk, now."

"I don't know what to say."

She nods, and steps up to throw her trash away. She takes her keys from her pocket. "Are you cool to walk home?"

Why can't he just tell her? Why does he have to play it so fucking safe? This isn't safe. He's going to lose her. He can't handle losing her again.

"No, no, Pam! Pam, sit down. Please."

She wipes her eyes with the sleves of her jacket. "I don't think that's a good idea, Jim."

"I know. I know. I'm sorry." He stands up, and follows her outside. "Jesus, Pam! Stop!" He grabs her arm, not roughly, but harsh enough to make her jump.

"Let go." She's crying again.

"Don't leave me," he begs.

"Fine. Get in and I'll take you home." She can't look him in the eyes.

He takes his free hand, the one not clasping her arm, and gently touches her chin. He lifts her face up to try to make her look at him. He just wants her to look at him. She closes her eyes and cries. "No. No, don't do that."

"Don't tell me what to do," she yells, wriggling free of his grip. "And don't touch me! God. You're so fucking weird, Jim! How'd I ever think you could be mature enough for this relationship? You don't know what you want, and when you finally think you know, you fuck it up. You make sure you can't ever have it."