She blinks once. Twice.

"Pam?"

"I'm here."

"Pam."

"What good would it do if I told you, Jim? I'm headed out of here in less than four months. And who knows if I'll come back?"

"It'd make all the fucking difference, Pam. It'd --"

"HOW?!" She grunts in frustration. "It would make no difference, Jim, zero, none. This obviously just isn't meant --"

"Jesus, Pam, shut up!"

"Excuse me?" Did he really just tell her to shut up?

"You heard me. God, Pam, I've sunk to the lowest of the lows for you. I've done all but get on my knees and beg you to just tell me maybe it could work. Maybe we could be together. And you know what? You're either not the girl I thought you were, or a really, really dense version of her."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Great, Pam, ask what 'dense' means. Sweet.

"Jesus. Pam --" he sighs. "I can't say this over the phone. Can you come over?"

*

Why did she do it? Why'd she say yes so easily? Why'd she go get in her car? Turn the engine on? Drive the fucking seven miles to Jim's apartment? Ugh.

She knocks. When he doesn't answer right away, her first instinct is to cower. To run. Run back to her car and pretend like he never demanded that of her. Like they were never anything more than fucking civil to each other.

She doesn't, though. She stands at the door and knocks a second time. He answers the door in jeans and a t-shirt. God, he looks good.

"Hey. Sorry. I was... Come on in." He steps aside, leaving an arm out as to point her inside. If this were any other situation, she might have giggled.

"Do we really have to do this tonight, Jim?" She sits on his sofa.

"We don't. I do."

She raises an eyebrow, gives him a quizzical look.

"I can't not say this to you, okay, this just has to come out."

She opens her mouth to speak, protest, scream - he doesn't know and he doesn't care. "Stop," he whispers. "Don't. Let me say this."

He sighs.

"This is gonna sting, Pam. And if you walk out that door as soon as I'm done, that's your choice, but you gotta know I'm right about this."

She shifts uncomfortably.

"This was never supposed to be about you."

More shifting. He sighs.

"Pam, this was never...It was, at first. It was about me, about lust. And then when those feelings didn't go away, and you were completely fucking oblivious to it all, it was about us. It was supposed to be about us and about love - true love, so fucking real it hurts love. And so what do I do? I try to take us there, make us real. I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my damn life with you. And you made it about you," he hisses the last word. "Little Pammy's afraid, little Pammy's gonna go hide behind big, mean ol' Roy so that she can keep dreaming, pretending her seemingly perfect life is something else. Little Pammy's still gonna marry Roy."

She wants to hide. She starts to cry, silently, eyes never leaving his.

"I just...God, Pam, sometimes I want to fucking shake you and tell you to grow up! I don't get why you can't see this. I didn't leave Scranton solely because of you. I had to get the hell out of here. You know how that feels, right? Running to Texas? There's no fucking other way for me to tell you I'd follow you to the end of the damn earth. I'm not gonna beg you to take me with you but if you asked, if you'd just admit that I'm not fucking delusional and that we're the friends we once were - the ones that had hope - I'd go with you."

She blinks away.

"I'd go in a second." He sits at his kitchen table, staring out into the living room at her. Was he too harsh? Why won't she say anything?

Five or six minutes pass. She can't be sure, her heart's not exactly keeping time at the moment.

She's not dying - at least, she doesn't think she is - but she's seeing her life flash before her eyes. His first day. The yogurt. The dojo. The olympics. His party. The dundies. Casino night. His first day back. His eyes when she told him she was accepted into the college in Houston. His eyes when he basically just told her what her heart had been trying to say all along.

But it doesn't stop there.

A big, busy city. College. Him at a desk, a real desk. In a real office. With a competent boss - no, a competent editor. Scranton in the summer, finalizing the sale of her house. A small wedding. Michael crashing it, half-drunk and crying because his 'children' are leaving forever. A home in a surburban area. Three little girls, curly brown hair and bright brown eyes.

She shakes her head, snaps out of it.

"I'm not scared," she whispers so soft he almost can't hear her. She stands. "I'm not afraid to go alone, that's why I didn't bother asking. Why can't friends be enough for you?"

He stands, too, and stomps toward her. "Because it's not enough for you, either. Pam, look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me. Do that. If you can do that for me, instead of fucking writing it down and taping it to my door, shit, I'll go out and start your car up for you. I'll help you pack all of your shit. You can go to Houston and I'll never bother you again. Doesn't mean I won't love you anymore, I'll just let you not love me."

She stomps closer to him. Staring up into his eyes, she can see - she can feel - he's not lying. She's searching his eyes for something - anything - to tell her that he's wrong. That that new asshole he just ripped her was meant for someone else. And when she can't find it:

"I love you."