She carries her anxiety like her mobile phone. It sits in her handbag, in her periphery, in that place in her mind that she can’t quite reach but easily invades every other thought she has. It weighs on her chest, makes her hands shake, brings an uncertainty to her voice that emphasises the existing lack of confidence to the clients she speaks to on the phone. She forgets Kevin’s extension, patches a client through to Stanley instead of Phyllis, forgets how to put a call on hold while she fumbles with her computer mouse for too long. She carries her anxiety like an oxygen tank most days, an appendage she cannot function without, but today is the worst she can ever remember being. She admonishes herself for it and feels worse.

It is 10:18am when the phone rings and she is forced to abandon the game of solitaire she is playing out of habit rather than interest. The moment she looks away from the screen she forgets what she was doing and has to take a moment to remember her usual line of greeting before answering the phone.

“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.”

“Hey, Pam, it’s Jan.”

She hears herself take a loud breath and steadies herself against her desk with her free hand. She swallows, feels her anxiety settle around her and disturb her stomach.

“Hi, Jan.” She doesn’t know what else to say. Cannot remember what the usual conventions of telephone politeness are. Cannot decide what she wants Jan to say to her.

“I’ve spoken to Josh about your request for a transfer, and he’s more than happy to have you on board in Stamford.” She pauses, and Pam can hear papers brushing against each other with the echoes characteristic of the glass-encased Corporate offices. “Can you start on Monday?”

“As in, the Monday six days from now?” She forces herself to take another breath, to focus on the way her knuckles are stretching against her skin and colouring it white, to keep the phone receiver pressed firmly against her ear so she doesn’t miss anything of importance in her panic.

“Yes. Will you be available then?”

“Um, yes, yes, of course.” She nods, remembers that Jan can’t see her. “Of course, I can.”

“Great. Now, can you patch me through to Michael? I need to get him up to speed on the logistics of this transfer and finding your replacement.”

“Uh, sure, not a problem, just- just give me one moment.” She finds the transfer button, presses it, hesitates as she finds the place in her brain where Michael’s extension should be entirely blank. But there it is, tucked away behind the thoughts she didn’t know she had about Stamford and the transfer and leaving and moving and being somewhere that isn’t Scranton, and she taps it into the phone and hears his voice through the receiver and through the glass of his office and transfers Jan. It is over, it is done, it cannot be taken back. She feels her limbs trembling with the familiar adrenaline of risk-taking behaviour and wonders again whether she is doing the right thing. Realises that it doesn’t matter anymore, there is no going back. There is only forward, away from here, into a new life. What has she done?

She stands, pushing against her desk with both hands in case her legs can’t support her. She hears the phone ringing but it is far away, muffled and distant and not her concern. Her arms find their way to her chest, crossed over each other as they always are, as she takes the requisite number of steps to get herself from reception to the kitchen. To a cup of tea and what she hopes will be a moment of silence.

She nudges the door open with her hip and leans against the sink. She takes in the bathroom doors in front of her, the wall and the paint that has been the same colour the entire time she has worked here. The waste bin in the corner and the inordinate number of magnets on the fridge. The oversized bucket of cheese puffs on the top of the freezer that looks to her now like a feature central to the structural integrity of the building. The noticeboard and small round table on the other side of the room and the dirty mugs in the sink left over from before the weekend and the coffee machine and the microwave she has cleaned out more times than she can count. She thinks that there will come a time very soon when she will stand here for the last time, taking in these aspects of her life that she has grown so accustomed to that she can hardly remember what life was like without them. She thinks that maybe she will be sad to see them go, to leave them behind in her brand new life. But she decides that she will only miss the comfort of familiarity, because this building is ugly and the coffee is too bitter and the waste bin always emits some kind of indeterminable odour.

The door swings open and she slides across the counter to make room for whoever has interrupted her to use the toilet or scan the fridge aimlessly to avoid paperwork. She turns to face the bench, pretending to reach for the teabag she no longer wants, but the figure in her periphery does not use the toilet or scan the fridge and she feels the weight of her social obligation to greet them too strongly. She looks up, a half-hearted salutation on her lips, but there is Jim with his sleeves rolled up and his hair sticking out behind his ears and she thinks that the last time she saw him he was standing in the bullpen in the light of a desk lamp and he smelled like winter and tasted like alcohol and was so close she could make out the pores on his nose.

“Hey,” he says, assuming his position against the wall opposite her. For a moment, the sound of his voice and the sight of his face make her forget the anxiety that is curled up in her stomach.

“Hey.” She offers a weak smile, unsure of what he expects from her, how he wants her to act. Turns to completely face him with her back to the bench. Folds her arms again because that is the only thing they know how to do.

“So, I heard you talking to Jan on the phone just then.” His voice is jarring, free from any attempt at small talk to conceal his intentions. She stands straighter against the sink. “And I saw you talking to her on Casino Night.”

“You followed me?” She doesn’t know whether she means it to be a joke or an accusation. Jim reacts to the latter.

“No, but I hung around to see what you were talking about. It seemed pretty serious from where I was standing.” His hands are in his pockets, like they always are, like she has seen every day that she has known him. She can see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows, the way his jaw is set as he waits for her to respond, the way he leans into the wall as though that is a genuinely comfortable way to stand.

“We were just talking about girl stuff. You know, periods, ovulation, waxing, all those things.” Her attempt at diffusive humour just invites more awkwardness into the room. She picks at an imaginary loose thread on her shirt to avoid his eyes. Feels them on her skin like his hands were.

“Pam, c’mon.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t release her. “What’s going on?”

“It’s really none of your business. And I don’t want to talk about it right now.” She is being petty and childish and so cowardly that for a second the acid of self-loathing sears through her. But to talk about this with him right now is just a little too much.

“I think you owe it to me, to be honest, just this once.” He hesitates and, prompted by weakness, she dares to look up at him. He catches her eyes with his own and she is frozen. “After what I said... after I was honest with you, I deserve the same.”

“Are you serious?” Now her cheeks are coloured with indignation and she allows it to animate her voice, doesn’t try to disguise it. “You tell me you love me, then kiss me while I’m engaged, and that entitles you to some deeply personal truth from me?” And as she speaks she remembers that she doesn’t regret that kiss at all, keeps reliving it and dreaming about it and analysing it so she never forgets. Because she is a coward and the truth is something her mouth is not familiar with. And yet she doesn’t try to leave, because she craves the sound of his voice even if it is expressing his hurt and anger.

“That kiss was anything but one-sided.” He is holding her gaze and clenching his jaw and she remembers the way his hair felt under her hands. “But even if it was, we’re friends, and friends tell each other things like this.”

“Like what? What is it exactly that you think I’m keeping from you, Jim?”

“I don’t know! That’s the point! Something has got you anxious and jittery and I want to know what it is!” His voice is loud now and it fills the room. He pauses, takes a breath, speaks softly. “Because you’re my friend and I care about you.”

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, knows that he is telling the truth.

“Don’t be like that, Pam. Just because I was stupid enough to tell you how I feel doesn’t mean that the last four years have meant nothing at all.”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust herself to speak. She can feel the balls of her feet aching in her shoes, can feel the pinch of her pencil skirt around her waist. The air is cold and easily finds it way to her skin through her cardigan, raising the hairs on her arm, prompting her to run her hands up and down her arms in a useless attempt to avoid speaking. Her fringe sweeps across her face as she looks at her feet and she pushes it back behind her ear even though she knows gravity will only tug it down again.

“We’re friends. I think I’ve made that very clear. And I would really appreciate it if my friend would give me some time to process my conversation with Jan on my own before I go sharing it with everybody in the office.” She is speaking to the floor because she doesn’t trust herself under the feeling of his eyes on her face.

“I’m not asking you to share it – whatever it is – with everybody in the office. I’m asking you to share it with me.” He, who made her a sandwich and swayed with her in the cold and leaned against her desk and told her they’d had their first date. He, who hung up her call with a client so he could update her on some very significant developments pertaining to a running prank on Dwight. He, who stayed late when everyone else went to Poor Richard’s after work and she hadn’t finished her filing. He, who knows her better than anyone else she has ever met and has never once made her feel anything but intelligent, funny and just a little bit desirable.

Maybe she does owe him this. And maybe she owes him nothing because she is engaged and he is her friend and she isn’t even really sure what is happening at the moment.

“Fine.” She slumps into the bench at her back, looks at his feet and the wall and his shoulder. “I asked Jan for a transfer to Stamford and she told me this morning that it had been approved. I start on Monday.”

And she finds herself searching his face for some kind of indication to how he is reacting, what he is thinking, what he thinks of her. And she hates herself for caring but she does, she cares so much about how he feels about her, about how he makes her feel, about knowing that he will give her that half smile that lingers for a second too long and lets her know that this is his special smile just for her, that he has shared with no-one else, that can communicate a thousand things because at this point they can essentially read each other’s minds.

But that look is noticeably absent from this conversation and he is just looking at her and he doesn’t know what to say and she immediately regrets those three short sentences and wishes more than anything that she could just go back to Thursday before he loved her and before she knew and before things were weird because honesty has invaded their carefully constructed facade of friendship.

“Why?” His voice is so soft and she has to lean forward to catch his single syllable.

“I, uh...” Why? “I just needed a change.”

“A change? A transfer is not a change, Pam. It’s a completely new life. You’re moving to a different state. You couldn’t have gotten new sneakers?”

“That’s what Jan said.”

“And did Jan say that you’re being completely irrational?” His voice is getting louder, getting harder to listen to. “How could this possibly be your solution? How is moving three hours away better than just dealing with stuff here? Why are you always running away, Pam?”

“I’m not running away. There’s just nowhere for me to fit here anymore.”

“You don’t mean that.” His eyes are on hers. “And you know it’s not true.”

“What, because you’re here? That’s supposed to make everything else just go away?” She is being so snarky and bitter, so rude and callous, but suddenly she can’t stop.

“I thought our friendship was enough.”

“Enough for what? Jokes during conference room meetings and pranks on Dwight?”

“I just thought that I was enough to get you to stay. Even if you married him. Even if we were only ever just friends. I thought those jokes and pranks were enough to get you to love Scranton and Dunder Mifflin and stay.”

And she hates herself because he is right but she is moving and she won’t allow herself to take another risk on top of this one. Because this is what she does, she lets things build and build until she is completely irrational and takes an enormous, uncalculated risk with absolutely no thought to the consequences if she proceeds. And this time the risk is permanent and the consequences are irrevocable and he is pleading with her to just think for a moment and she can’t because she knows exactly what will happen if she does.

“I’m sorry, Jim, but for once I made a decision without thinking about you. I’m doing what’s best for me.” She is lying. She hates it.

“No, Pam. All you ever do is think about yourself and what’s best for you. And then you go and do the complete opposite, ignoring all of your friends in the process.”

“You mean, ignoring you.”

He sighs. He looks different now. “When I asked you if you were still going to marry him and you said yes, you chose yourself again. And you’re not even treating yourself right, because he isn’t going to make you happy.” He stops, swallows the words he was about to say. Looks at her and says them anyway. “I can. I would. But if you’re going to go through with this completely idiotic plan and move to another state because you can’t admit to yourself that I’m right, then go ahead. But I won’t be staying around to watch.”

He pushes off from the wall and throws the door open and crosses the bullpen and now he is gone and he is not her best friend and in the cold silence of the kitchen she realises that for the first time in four years she is truly, absolutely, completely alone in her stupidity and self-loathing and cowardice. And it is that cowardice that keeps her there, keeps her from following him and pleading with him and apologising and winning back that half-smile. Because she has rejected him so many times and now he is done with her and it is all her fault.

And she realises that there is one thing in her life that she can control, one thing she can totally destroy and feel not one shred of remorse about, one thing she can take and end and be done with and not carry around its charred remains with her for the rest of her life. Is she going to carry Jim around for the rest of her life? She thinks now that maybe she just might.

She leaves the kitchen, crosses the bullpen, takes the stairs down to the warehouse. It is cold, like always, and enormous, like always, and she feels as small as she always does as she enters this space that she really does not belong in. He is there, watching her, seeing her before she sees him, and it takes a moment for the weight of his gaze to break through the fog of her thoughts.

“Hey, Pammy.” He opens his arms, folds her into them, smells like oil and grease and dust and paper. “What are you doing down here?”

She escapes from his grasp, folds her arms like a shield across her chest. Looks him in the eyes and pretends she feels nothing for him at all. “I asked Jan for a transfer to Stamford last week and she called me this morning to let me know that I start on Monday.”

He is silent and she is silent and she can feel her heartbeat in her mouth and thinks for a moment that maybe she is going to throw up right here on the cement. Is this really happening? Is this really her solution to years of indecision?

“What do you mean?” He isn’t looking at her.

“I mean, I’m moving to Stanford and you’re not coming with me.”

“So, like, long distance? For how long?” He is more confused than he is upset or emotional. She isn’t sure why she expected anything else.

“No, not long distance.” He is suddenly so close and she steps back but she can still smell him and feel the way his arms contorted her to fit against him. “I’m going to Stanford and you’re staying here because we’re not getting married.”

She has his attention now. He is actually looking at her with a focused and deliberate gaze. She tries not to shrink beneath the weight of her consequences. “What the hell, Pam? Are you seriously doing this now? I haven’t even had lunch yet.” She thinks he is done but then his head snaps up with a sudden epiphany. “Is it Halpert? Has he... made a move?”

“Really, Roy? You think the only reason I could make a decision on my own is if some other guy claimed me?” And the disdain in her voice is only disguising the tremor of truth because yes, it is Jim, it is him and not Roy and she is running away from him instead of toward him and she is trying to convince herself right now that this is the best thing to do and for just a second she can agree that it is. “This has nothing to do with Jim. I’m doing this for me. I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago.”

“So that’s it, you’re just... dumping me and moving three hours away? And I don’t get a say?”

“You’ve had your say for the last nine years, Roy. That’s the problem.”

And she is being slightly too dramatic but she turns and finds her way back up the stairs before he can say anything and she imagines for a moment that she has left him with his jaw open and his arms slack by his sides and his heart audibly shattering with the pain of losing the best thing that ever happened to him. But she knows Roy, and she also knows that the minute she was gone he went back to whatever sexual banter he was engaged in with Darryl and all the other guys whose names she doesn’t know and now she is nothing more than a minor inconvenience.