In the parking lot earlier, he'd walked away from her with his hands in his pockets and his head down, bitter gall in his mouth as his own words resonated in his head mercilessly: Not your fault. I'm sorry I misinterpreted...our friendship.

For a few pathetic moments, he'd wandered aimlessly, the faint din from the warehouse reaching his ears -- a low roar that every few moments grew to a crescendo, then died down again. He wasn't sure where to go -- reeling too much to drive, caught in a daze that precluded being around anyone else. So he'd kind of stumbled around the circumference of the building, jaw clenched, head down as he staved off the nausea, willing his mind to just be blank...just for a few minutes until he could steel himself enough to actually process the enormity of what had just happened.

The magnituded of all that he'd just gambled on and lost.

Then he'd heard a voice behind him: "Hey, yo....Halpert!"

For some weird reason, he didn't turn around, just slowed his steps until he was standing still several feet from the side of the warehouse's main entrance, hands still in his pockets, eyes on the concrete. He felt the way he did on those rare occasions when he drank too much on a Saturday afternoon, then drifted off to sleep...awakening to feel more disoriented than rested, unable to shake the sense of hovering just outside his own skin.

"Hey..." Darryl's hand closed over his shoulder before he stepped in front of him, ducking his head and narrowing his eyes as he stared at Jim. "You all right, man?"

"Yeah." His tongue tangled over the word; he didn't even attempt to smile or look Darryl in the eye. Because he fucking envied Darryl's ability to be so damned cool all the time -- nothing seemed to faze him, ever.

Darryl's hand was still on his shoulder, his eyes seeking Jim's. "You had too much to drink? You need a ride home? Because I can make it - "

"No." Jim's voice was harsher than he'd intended for it to be as he pulled away, shaking Darryl off.

Darryl took a step back, his hand sliding off Jim's shoulder, his eyebrows raised as if in a warning, hands out in front of him. "All right, then."

Jim swallowed hard, then raised his eyes to meet Darryl's -- startled when he saw the way Darryl's expression changed right in front of his eyes, the indignation disappearing into a meld of blatant curiosity and startlingly evident compassion.

So he forced himself to shake his head and murmur, "I'm sorry, man...just...."

He didn't finish, because he couldn't finish. What to say?

"Nah, don't worry about it." Darryl's voice drew his attention, and from the way Darryl was staring at him, he knew he must look like he fucking felt. He knew it for sure when Darryl added, "Just...you just come find me if you want...you know, if you need a ride. That, uh...that little blonde girl - what's her name....?"

"Angela."

"Yeah, Angela." There was a faint smile on Darryl's face now, and Jim immediately realized its origin.

He closed his eyes, steadying himself from the inside out because he was afraid for a second that he'd throw up as he thought back to the day -- seemed like forever ago now -- when they'd played, "Who would you do?" He hadn't been sure which was more infuriating to him: the fact that Roy apparently had a little thing for Angela, or the fact that Roy had been so absolutely oblivious to that small smile on Pam's face as she'd waited for him to answer the challenge...clearly expecting him to answer, "Pam, of course."

How could he fucking lust after Angela when he's got Pam? Didn't he see that smile on Pam's face when it was his turn? She so obviously expected him to answer with her name (god, if only I could have....).

Goddamn it...why can't I be as indifferent to her as Roy is?

He realized then that Darryl was still watching him, so he forced himself to snap out of it, offer a half-smile, then: "Thanks. I'll, uh....I'll be fine."

"You sure 'bout that?"

"Yeah, I -- " And then out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pam hurry past far off in the distance, her head down, one arm raised as she swiped clumsily at her face with her bare wrist. Her nose was red, and even as he watched her go by - struggling to swallow over the lump in his throat - he saw that her face was glistening in the streetlamp, wet with tears.

He realized then that Darryl was still standing there staring at him, his eyes having followed Jim's line of sight; Darryl, too, watched as Pam disappeared into the building, then he turned his attention back to Jim, one eyebrow raised.

Jim looked away. "I'm good, man. Thanks."

He didn't wait for Darryl's response; instead, he turned and strode purposefully toward the building, heading toward the same door through which she'd disappeared seconds earlier and taking the elevator to their floor.

For weeks now -- months, actually -- he'd felt her impending wedding approaching with a helpless, almost strangled feeling; it was as if he couldn't really breathe when he considered the fact that there was a ticking deadline now. In a matter of time -- too, too little time -- she'd marry somebody else.

And he knew her well enough to know that if she married Roy, that would be the definitive end for them; she'd never let herself look back, would never leave him once she'd taken those vows.

Such ran the course of his thoughts even as he rounded the corner, opened the glass doors to their suite...saw her leaning against his desk, clutching his phone, one hand toying absently with the cord.

The fact that she was standing at his desk spoke volumes to him -- made him that much more convinced that when she'd spoken earlier (can't misinterpreted friendship), she'd done so in a knee-jerk attempt at self-preservation. She'd been guarded, and he realized now that she'd probably seen that moment coming -- had on some level prepared for it long ago.

*******

It had begun low in her stomach, a tiny, hard knot that seemed to gain momentum with every word he spoke; by the time he'd shaken his head slightly, desperation all over him as he'd said with such conviction, "C'mon, I don't wanna do that; I wanna be more than that" - the knot was a weight lodged in her throat, making it impossible to breathe, to think, to speak.

Strange that in that moment she'd become conscious of something she'd sort of relied on -- no, lived with, relished -- for years now: the way that they could communicate without saying a word.

It had begun with the simple stuff, the pranks; they'd developed a shorthand all their own within the first two weeks of her hire at Dunder Mifflin, learning to read each other's expressions: Okay, he's ready for me to approach Dwight. Ah, I should follow him to the kitchen now. Ohhh,, this is pretty bad; gotta go to the break room with him for rock -paper-scissors to decide who goes to comfort Michael.

As time had gone on, so much more had lingered behind those eyes of his; in the past year as her wedding had drawn closer and closer, she picked up a shockingly palpable sense of panic from him. He'd stopped trying to hide it the way he once had; she wasn't sure that he'd even gone on a single date since things with he and Katy had ended so suddenly, apparently badly.

When she'd asked him about it, he'd been terse with her for the first time ever: "I don't wanna talk about it." She'd persisted, "Seriously, though - " He'd cut her off, almost biting the words out, his eyes averted: "Doesn't matter. Trust me."

Moments like the one when the reality of what she was doing to him almost bubbled to the surface in the midst of that seemingly innocent Jinx game became more and more frequent, only they were more pronounced when the cameras weren't there. In fact, she'd kind of grown to rely on the cameras, because she could hide behind them.

Both of them were hyperaware when the lenses focused in their direction; even when they couldn't see the cameras, neither forgot the waiver they'd signed following the orientation seminar, in which they'd all been warned never to assume the cameras weren't around just because they weren't visible. The producer had emphasized more than once, "On the days that the cameramen are licensed to film, your every movement is fair game for the documentary. While we encourage you to go about your normal behavior, we want to also stress that the cameras may not always be visible, so...just remember that."

She and Jim definitely had, at first seeing the cameras as an intrusion, something that forced them to arrange meetings in the stairwell, where they could speak freely about things -- what was really going on with Jan and Michael (Pam insisting Michael was making too much of whatever brief interlude they'd shared the night of the big meeting at Chili's, Jim shaking his head, swearing that there was more to it than that); the bottle of vodka that had appeared in the freezer the week before (Jim bet five dollars that it was Creed's; Pam matched the bet, putting her money on Meredith).

Then the Booze Cruise had happened - the terrifying yet mesmerizing moments they'd spent out on that deck, followed by Roy's drunken insistence that they set a date - and things had slowly begun to change.  She'd begun to see their stairwell excursions as less an escape than a Pandora's Box of sorts, drawing her in with the heart-pounding intimacy she found there, all alone with him -- a warmth that all-too quickly accelerated into a heat that threatened to scorch the careful plans she'd made for her life.

She always ended up fleeing that stairwell somehow -- from the first day they'd gone in there, when the cameras had been at the office for the first time. The last time she'd run from the stairwell had been earlier that same day.

They'd been watching the wedding bands as she struggled to ignore how fucking uncomfortable it was at first. It had been barely a week since he'd admitted that he'd been the one to complain about her to Toby. As soon as they'd finished taking the group photo, she'd deliberately headed toward the stairwell - less because she wanted him to follow her than because she just felt the need to get out, to get away.

She'd heard Phyllis mutter, "Oh dear..." when Jim had admitted he'd been the one to complain, and for some reason, it had only accelerated the panic that had been simmering just beneath the surface of her consciousness for weeks now...months.

Within seconds after she'd sat down on the top step, she heard the door open and close behind her -- didn't turn and look, because she didn't have to. It was him; it was always him.

He'd sat down next to her -- just sitting there in silence for what had to be close to five full minutes, his eyes trained on a block of concrete on the opposite wall; when she dared to glance over at him, his jaw had been clenched, brow dark as he obviously struggled to find the words to say.

And then finally he'd managed in a low, barely audible voice, "I'm sorry, Pam; I just...it's so...."

He tilted his jaw, breathing in sharply through his nose before he finished, "...so damn hard."

"I know." She whispered, terrified he'd say more -- so terrified that she forced herself to turn to him with a bright smile, adding in a quivering voice that betrayed her, "But nothing has to change just because...just because I'm getting married. You're my best friend; you always will be."

She'd even leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, seeing his stunned expression in her peripheral vision - he'd looked as if she'd knocked the breath out of him - as she stood to go, fleeing back to the safety of the bright lights of the office.

A week later they'd been back there again; he'd apparently done whatever he had to do to reconcile himself to the fact that she was still planning the wedding on office time.

That was as deep as she let her thoughts go -- didn't allow herself to even question why he was really bothered; didn't dare examine the fact that the closer her wedding date came, the less able she was to stave off thoughts of Jim that were decidedly more than platonic. Pre-wedding jitters, she'd labeled those thoughts, dismissing them quickly.

When she'd playfully wrangled with him at the door after they'd watched Kevin's tape, they'd ended up bursting out of the conference room in a tangled, laughing mass of flailing arms, his body blocking hers. Angela's head had appeared over the partition, eyebrow raised; Phyllis had turned around in her chair to look, then turned away with a small smile.

Without a word, Pam had nodded toward the stairwell, heading out the door. It was their routine: one would give a subtle sign, while the other went back to his or her desk to count to sixty before discreetly slipping away. Whenever she felt the guilt biting, she told herself that that was just what friends did.

They'd sat side-by-side in a comfortable silence for a second, then he'd asked, "So...you gonna go with Kev's band?"

"I think I am." She answered absently, moving to tuck her bangs behind her ear -- startled when she caught the faint scent of his cologne on her hand from where they'd playfully wrestled earlier. She immediately prayed that it wouldn't fade too quickly...then dismissed the thought.

He'd nodded, then: "Mmmkay...so what Police song is going to be the centerpiece for you? 'Don't Stand So Close To Me'...? 'Fortress Around Your Heart'...?"

She burst out laughing, shaking her head at him, distracted by the vision of him putting on cologne in the morning...did he do it before he put his shirt on, or after? When the top button of his shirt was still undone, his tie hanging loosely around his neck?

Forcing the thought from her mind - along with the stab of guilt that came with it - she answered, "Roy really likes 'Every Breath You Take.'"

She immediately felt stupid when she saw the look on Jim's face -- his brow furrowed a bit in confusion, lips pursed. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to -- she hated that stupid song, too, always had. Roy had gotten frustrated with her when she'd referred to it as the "Stalker" song; he'd insisted she was reading too much into it.

Jim clearly felt the same way that she did, but he obviously knew her well enough to keep that to himself.

To stave off the little wave of panic that realization brought on, she asked, "So...what song would you pick?"

She'd never forget the way he'd slowly, slowly turned his head, eyes meeting hers - something haunted there, as if his hope was just slipping away. "What song would I pick...for your wedding?"

Her breath lodged in her throat at the inflection he'd put on the word "your"; she knew what he was doing - or was about to do - but she couldn't keep herself from swallowing, then: "Yeah."

He looked away immediately, blinking a little too quickly before he answered, "Uh...I guess I'd...there's a song on one of Sting's solo albums that I'd...go with."

He was clearly being evasive; her curiosity was piqued. "So what's it called?"

Still he wouldn't look at her - perhaps couldn't look at her. "Um, not...sure. I mean, I can't remember. I'll...look it up, send you a link or something."

Just before he'd left that night, he'd paused at her desk, handing her his i-pod, avoiding her eyes. "It's...cue'd up; just hit the button."

He'd turned to go then, and she'd called out, her voice high and thin, "What about your i-pod?"

"You can get it back to me tomorrow." With that, he was gone.

She remembered being so fucking terrified - first to look down at the screen, push the button, see what song it was; then to realize that she had his i-pod for the entire night...so much to discover there, she knew.

She'd waited until everyone else was gone before she dared to hit the button, biting her lip as she waited for the screen to illuminate, then: Why Should I Cry For You. Her hand trembled slightly as she pushed the button, knowing that to listen to this song would be to get a glimpse into his mind right now -- knowing that it was a chance she really couldn't afford to take, but one from which she just couldn't turn away.

She listened standing stock still, one hand clutching the i-pod, the other covering her mouth; it was too much - she was sorry she'd asked, sorry he'd answered...sorry her life couldn't have just been different.

And then, with a prickly sensation on the back of her neck, she realized she wasn't alone -- glanced over to the door to see him standing just inside, his hands in his pockets, eyes on her...hope and fear all over him.

"Oh." She yanked the earbuds out, thrusting them out toward him with a hand that trembled. As she gathered up her things, murmuring that the song had been pretty as she hurried past him, she desperately tried not to see his face.

But a week later, standing there in the dim lights of the parking lot on Casino Night, she'd been unable to look away from him; even when he'd walked away from her and she'd stood there mindlessly twisting her engagement ring back and forth, she'd seen him in her peripheral vision -- shoulders broad in his dark sweater, hands in his pockets, head down -- gradually fading in the distance.

She didn't move for the longest time -- just stood there fidgeting with that ring, her eyes wide and stark, mind racing.

Obviously, the fact that he had feelings for her wasn't the shock; it was that he'd finally - finally - said it out loud. Over the past few months, she'd perfected the art of deflecting any moments when it appeared he might cross the line...venture into territory that terrified her because it was beyond the point of no return. She'd learned just when to throw out a teasing question, just when to stand and leave the room, offering up a lame excuse for why she had to go.

Running, always movng...that's what it had been like for her ever since the Booze Cruise, maybe before. It was almost as if she could stave off the inevitable by swiftly moving, never stopping.

Tonight she had stopped, caught unawares, swept up in the celebratory atmosphere of the night, her will somehow anethesthesized by the way he'd looked at her across that poker table. When he'd said it - I'm in love with you - the words hit her with a physical impact: her stomach dropped as her throat seemed to close up.

She hadn't even considered the reality of what he was telling her -- or rather, hadn't allowed herself to really consider the possibilities inherent in what he'd confessed to her. Her response had been immediate - I can't - her own words betraying her. The shock of his confession was trumped only by the astounding fact that he hadn't backed off when she'd told him no; the fact that he had persisted - told her pointedly that he wanted more - had been enough to make her really panic.

Telling him he'd misinterpreted things was an impulse borne of that same panic.

*******

The room was strangely still, haunted by the bluish haze of the computer monitors, the only discernible sounds the rustling of her dress beneath his hands, the barely audible whisper of their lips meeting, parting...kisses punctuated by their breathing.

He'd followed her here, though not for this: This had happened when he'd heard the timbre of her voice, heavy with tears as she'd seemed to answer mournfully, "I think I am"; this had happened because he still couldn't shake the certainty that she'd been lying to him earlier when she'd uttered the word "misinterpreted."

Because she'd prefaced it with a question: "I can't...?"

And while the word itself - "misinterpreted," so ugly, so damned...hurtful, deliberate - had given him pause at first, the inflection in her voice when she'd said the words (no, asked), "I can't" was what gave him the courage to turn back when he saw her hurrying into the building.

He'd live on the moments that followed for months to come, marveling at how natural it had been to just reach out, put his arms around her, pull her toward him, lower his mouth to hers -- the moment he'd fantasized about for such a long time, so long that it should've been awkward. But it wasn't; the sense that stuck with him for so long afterward was simply how...easily it had happened.

He'd never believed in love at first sight, had always maintained a healthy skepticism for those people who swore that when you met "the one," you simply knew it. He'd come to perceive love, particularly in the years that he'd known Pam, as the culmination of a series of moments: beats that seemed mundane but somehow made up the fabric of a thing so precious, so awe-inspiring that it had crept up on him, enveloped him before he'd even known what was really happening.

But while he'd been in love with her for years, he hadn't come to believe that she was really it -- that this was it -- until the moment she let go in his arms, her hands -- which had hovered dangerously on his chest, as if she might push him away...then in a rush of breath, she'd let go, those hands stealing up the sides of his shoulders to his face, sinking into his hair, her lips moving beneath his.

He'd known then that, no matter how this turned out, he was where he belonged; this was the woman for him. And for a split second, the utter headiness of that revelation had been enough.

She'd thought at first that she could brush it off, the way feeling his mouth on hers had brought the truth rushing to the forefront in all its shocking reality, its devastating promise; because he'd finally grinned down at her, breaking the protratcted silence - however haltingly - his voice hoarse: "You have no idea...how long I have wanted to do that."

He couldn't believe he was admitting it to her; he couldn't believe she'd just kissed him back -- after he'd told her he was in love with her. The happiness was absolute, humbling.

She couldn't take her eyes off his face, very much aware of the warmth of his hands over her own, the way his thumbs absently caressed her skin. He'd never spoken to her like that before - with that look, with a gravelly voice, with eyes so unfocused -- from desire or awe, she couldn't be sure.

She heard herself answer, wonder in her own voice, "Me, too."

Even though he'd suspected, hoped, prayed -- hearing her say it out loud was simply mind-boggling for him; all he could do was stand there and stare down at her, her palms so tiny and delicate in his own.

And then she slowly began to come out of it - emerging from that hazy, surreal world in which she and Jim might actually have a chance - to find herself staring back at him and realizing that she had to figure out a way to go back. Because they just couldn't do this; it couldn't happen.

So she murmured weakly, "Maybe we're just drunk."

His stomach dropped at her words. "I'm not drunk...are you drunk?"

The relief he felt was immediate; he allowed himself to give in to that pull, leaning down toward her again.

She wanted it to happen again...but she knew better. Because as soon as she'd allowed herself to let go earlier - however brief the moment - she'd known it was all over; they wouldn't be able to go back to the charade of "just friends" again. Not ever. Worse than that, kissing him brought her face-to-face with the inescapable reality that this was what she really wanted; he was the man she wanted to be with. She knew, even as she forced herself to pull back, gently nudging him away, that her life could've been so different - god, so totally different....

If only circumstances had been different. But they weren't; she'd resigned herself to the fact that she was marrying Roy -- she had to marry Roy. This thing with Jim simply could never be, no matter how much she wanted it...him.

He'd been watching her face as she stood there staring up at him. Then he spoke, his eyes never leaving hers, his words a throaty whisper: "You're really going to marry him?"

Somewhere inside, he just didn't believe she'd say yes. Maybe she'd be conflicted - shrug; maybe she'd get upset, turn away and cry I don't know....

But then she nodded ever so slightly, her eyes wide and trained on his, her entire demeanor conveying regret, devastation; she looked as shell-shocked as he felt.

He almost reeled backward at her response, but forced himself to be still, taking only a moment to collect himself before he whispered: "Okay."

With one last squeeze, he let go of her hands and stepped back, turning to walk toward the door, hands in his pockets once more, chest throbbing with an ache that felt like it would leap out of him, turn on him, consume him completely.

At the door he stopped, turning slightly. He couldn't look directly at her as he spoke, his voice raspy: "I think you should know that...I'm transferring to the Stamford branch."

His words sent a cold rush over her, snapping her out of the daze she'd been in as she had watched him trudge toward the door. "What? No, Jim, you can't - "

"I am." Still his eyes were averted.

"You don't have to do that!" Her voice was loud, surprising her; still, she took a step toward him, flinching a little when he took a step back...away.

"It's done." So flat his voice, so dead his eyes, when a few seconds ago, they'd been burning.

"What does that mean?" She was whispering again, as if she were afraid to ask the question out loud.

He held her gaze for a second, ignoring that throbbing, which was slowly making its way from his chest to his lower abdomen. "It means that I took it already; I'm starting at Stamford in - "

She didn't let him finish - his name was a sharp, jagged whisper: "Jim...!"

Pausing, he watched with a sickening feeling as tears welled in her eyes, then immediately spilled down her cheeks; her right hand rose, the back of it pressing ineffectually against her mouth. His instinct was to put his arms around her; instead, he cleared his throat and forced himself to go on.

"...two weeks."

Now she was shaking her head furiously, the back of her hand still shoved against her mouth as if that might stop the sobs. They came anyway as she finally managed: "Why? Why are you doing this?"

He knew he should be angry at her for asking such a thing, knew he must be fucking masochistic to find himself sympathizing with the woman who had just obliterated him. But he couldn't help himself.

He tilted his head with a small, sad smile, tears standing out in his eyes as he took a few steps toward her, then reached out to touch her wet cheek. When her eyes closed at his touch, he had to swallow hard, clenching his jaw in an effort not to shed any more tears. ...Not to kiss her again, beg her to let him take her home, make love to her...convince her that there was no real reason to fight this.

She repeated herself, more softly this time: "Why are you doing this...?"

His hand dropped, and when he spoke, his voice was gruff: "You know why."

Then he added, "I just...I can't do this anymore, Pam."

Their eyes met and held again. He told himself he'd wait...would stand there and stare at her, give her the chance to take it all back, to just tell him she'd at least think about it -- something, anything other than the finality of the fact that she was going to marry someone else.

Instead, she stood there staring back at him, tears still streaming down her cheeks as her chest slowly began to heave spasmodically with the sobs. He wanted to go to her, wanted to pull her close and hold her until her tears subsided, until he could beg her to just think about it before saying a definitive no.

But she was still standing there staring at him even as she sobbed, having not taken a single step toward him.

And that was her answer, he knew.

"I'm sorry, Pam." It was a hoarse whisper, his eyes following a tear that streamed down, pooled in the corner of her mouth as she stood there frozen. He wanted to say more, so much more...but she'd made it clear that she didn't want to hear it.

He had no choice than but to walk away, the sound of her sobs getting louder -- gasping breaths that grew deeper, a horrible heaving sound from the back of her throat following him all the way to the stairwell. He took the stairs so quickly that he stumbled toward the bottom, regaining his footing just in time to shove open the back door, pushing out into the shockingly cold air.

Brilliantly clear sky, the black velvet backdrop punctuated by stars as he staggered out the door, his hands shaking, the look on her face etched in his mind.