I Was Engaged, But My Office Crush Just Confessed He's In Love With Me

Pam’s stapler clicked like a metronome against the Formica as she tapped it, arranging her colored pencils into a perfect spectrum. Red beside orange, orange beside yellow, the order so precise it could have been a Pantone chart. Outside the glass doors, the parking lot was still half-empty, the early light flat and colorless, the same shade as the carpet that swallowed footsteps and dreams. She had been at her desk since seven-thirty, long before the hum of copiers and Michael’s voice ricocheting off the walls, because quiet was a currency she hoarded.

She lined up the pencils again—sharpened, points aligned—then rotated the cup a quarter inch so the Dunder Mifflin logo faced her. A small, useless rebellion against a day that would look exactly like yesterday. The fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, the sound of insects trapped in a jar.

Footsteps. Not Michael’s—too light. Not Dwight’s—too eager. Pam didn’t look up until the footsteps stopped, replaced by the soft squeak of sneakers on industrial tile. Jim stood by the reception island, hands in pockets, hair still damp at the temples. He tilted his head toward the back offices, eyebrows raised in a question older than their friendship: ready? Pam’s mouth twitched, an answer she couldn’t give aloud. He disappeared down the corridor.

She counted to thirty, then followed.

The break-room fridge exhaled sour coffee breath when she opened it. There, on the middle shelf, sat a plastic bowl of amber Jell-O quivering like a trapped sunrise. Inside it, Dwight’s heavy black stapler floated like a sunken treasure. Pam’s laugh escaped as a huff through her nose. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late; the sound echoed off the vending machine. She eased the bowl out, palms sweating against the cold plastic, and set it on the counter. The Jell-O wobbled, and the stapler shifted, its metal jaws glinting.

Behind her, Jim cleared his throat. She hadn’t heard him return. He leaned in the doorway, shoulder against the jamb, arms folded. The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but a promise of one. Their eyes locked in the humming fluorescence, and something electric passed between them, bright and illicit. For three full seconds the office shrank to the space between his irises and hers, the joke alive and pulsing. Then footsteps thundered down the hall—Dwight’s—followed by Michael’s voice chanting stats about paper sales. The spell snapped. Pam stepped back, wiping her palms on her skirt. Jim reached past her, plucked a coffee stirrer from the counter, and tapped the Jell-O once, twice, as if testing its readiness. He nodded once—tonight—and left her alone with the evidence trembling on the counter.

Pam returned to her desk before the phones began their morning chorus. The pencils were still perfect, but her pulse refused to line up with anything.

The phone rang at 12:17, right on schedule. Pam’s turkey sandwich sat half-wrapped on her desk, the yellow mustard already bleeding into the bread. She wiped her fingers on a napkin before lifting the receiver.

“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.”

Roy’s exhale crackled through the line, the sound of someone already bored. “Hey. You got a pen?”

She did. She always did. Pam clicked her ballpoint against the appointment book she’d abandoned for lunch. “Shoot.”

“Need a new wear ring for the ’96 Sea-Doo. Part number 293-200-100. Also a bilge pump, Rule 500, and—” His voice flattened into a catalog, each syllable landing like a dropped wrench. She scribbled the numbers, the ink feathering on the cheap paper. When he paused, she jumped in.

“Michael tried to pronounce ‘jalapeño’ three different ways during the sales meeting. He ended up saying ‘juh-lop-en-oh’ like it was a dinosaur.”

Roy snorted, but it wasn’t amusement; it was the sound he made when a bolt stripped. “You still there?” he asked, and kept going before she answered. “Couple hose clamps, stainless. Don’t get the cheap ones. And grab me that discount code from the marina newsletter.”

Pam’s laugh died in her throat. She stared at the mustard stain spreading like a bruise. “Sure,” she said, though he was already reciting more digits. Her sandwich dried out under the fluorescents. Ten minutes disappeared into engine parts she would never see.

When he hung up—no goodbye, just a grunt and dead air—she was still holding the pen. She set it down carefully, as if it might detonate.

Across the office, Jim stood at the vending machine, forehead pressed to the glass like a kid at an aquarium. The bag of SunChips dangled on the spiral hook, refusing to drop. He nudged the machine with his hip, then crouched, hand darting up the chute. His sleeve rode high enough to expose the pale underside of his wrist. Pam watched him wrestle the bag free; the machine surrendered with a metallic cough.

He walked back, chips held aloft like a trophy. Without asking, he tore the corner open and placed them on her desk, exactly within reach. Salt and vinegar scent rose between them.

“Victory,” he said, brushing orange dust from his fingers. “They fear me now.”

Pam felt the corners of her mouth lift before she had time to stop them. “You’re their nemesis.”

Jim leaned against the counter, close enough that his khakis brushed her chair. “How’s the turkey?”

“Dry,” she admitted. “Roy gave me a shopping list.”

He nodded like he already knew, like he’d heard every word through the phone wire. “So… eat the chips first. Live dangerously.”

She took one. The salt stung the tiny cut on her lip she hadn’t noticed until now. Jim watched her chew, eyes bright, waiting to see if she’d laugh again. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but the sound felt softer, almost like crickets.

Pam swallowed. “Thanks.”

He shrugged, but his smile stayed, small and real and only for her. The ten-minute call shrank to nothing beside the thirty seconds it took him to free a snack and bring it over. She crumpled the parts list into a tight ball, dropped it into the trash, and reached for another chip.

The clock above the reception desk clicked to 5:47. Pam snapped her pencil case shut, the sound sharp in the hush that followed Michael’s exodus. Most of the cubicles were already dark, monitors asleep. She was looping her scarf when Jim appeared, hip against her counter, hands buried in his coat pockets. The wool of his sleeve grazed the bare skin just below her elbow—barely contact, yet her pulse leapt like a startled cat.

“You smell like soap,” she said before she could filter it.
“Lever 2000, original scent. I’m a creature of habit.” His grin tilted. “You okay to drive? You inhaled those margaritas at lunch.”

She rolled her eyes, but the tease warmed her. “They wore off around two-thirty, right when Kevin spilled toner on the carpet.”
“Tragic day for magenta,” he agreed. Then, quieter, “Any fun plans tonight?”

She shook her head. “I was thinking about that new exhibit at the Montclair—small landscapes done on postcards. The artist paints the view from every motel room he stays in.”
Jim’s eyebrows lifted. “You mentioned that last month. You said the postcards feel like secrets maile to no one.”

Heat crawled up her neck; he had stored the detail. “That’s exactly why I want to go. It’s only up two more weeks.”
“What days are you free?” he asked, voice low enough that the janitor’s vacuum swallowed it.

She swallowed. “Tomorrow night, actually. Roy’s working late.”
Jim’s fingers drummed once against the counter, a tiny drumroll. “I could pick you up at six. We’ll get dumplings first, if you want. The place on Main has those pork-and-chive ones you like.”

She had mentioned the dumplings once, weeks ago, in a conversation about guilty lunches. The fact that he remembered felt like being seen through clear glass after years of frosted windows.

“Six sounds good,” she said. Her voice came out softer than intended.
He straightened, coat brushing her shoulder again. “Wear comfortable shoes. I hear the gallery floor is concrete.”
“I will.” She risked a glance upward. His eyes were the color they turned when he was tired—stormy green, lashes darker than she had any right to notice.

For a moment neither moved. The cleaning crew’s radio leaked a tinny love song; the moment stretched until it hummed like a plucked string. Then Jim stepped back, breaking the current.

“Goodnight, Pam.”
“Night, Jim.”

He walked backward twice, as if reluctant to turn, then lifted a hand and disappeared around the corner. The elevator dinged; the doors sighed shut.

Pam stood in the sudden quiet, scarf half-wrapped, skin still tingling where his sleeve had passed. The lobby lights flicked to motion-sensor dim, spotlighting only her. She finished knotting the scarf, gathered her purse, and pushed through the glass doors into the parking lot. The air was cold enough to bite, but the place beneath her ribs stayed stubbornly warm—an ember cupped against the wind that waited for her outside Roy’s apartment, where dinner would be take-out eaten in front of a television that never asked her questions or remembered the shape of her quietest dreams.

Pam stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the front of her dress. It was navy, simple, with a neckline that dipped just low enough to make her feel like someone else. She’d bought it on clearance two summers ago and never worn it—Roy said it was “too fancy for Chili’s.” Tonight, that felt like the point.

She tugged at the hem, then at the sleeves, then gave up and grabbed her purse. The drive was short, but her stomach twisted the whole way, like she was walking into a test she hadn’t studied for. The Chili’s parking lot was already half-full, the neon sign buzzing above the door like it knew something she didn’t.

Inside, the air was thick with fryer oil and margarita mix. Michael’s voice boomed from the back room, already mid-monologue. Pam hesitated at the hostess stand, scanning the crowd. Roy was easy to spot—his back to her, elbows on the bar, laughing too loud with his brother Kenny. He hadn’t noticed she was late.

She felt it before she saw him.

Jim was leaning against the wall near the entrance to the banquet room, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a plastic cup. He looked up like he’d been waiting. Their eyes locked. He didn’t smile right away—just looked. Then he pushed off the wall and walked toward her, slow, like he didn’t want to spook her.

“Wow,” he said, stopping just close enough that she could smell his cologne—something clean and warm. “You look great.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it landed somewhere deep in her chest, like a key sliding into a lock.

Pam felt her face flush. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if I was overdressed.”

“You’re not,” he said quickly. “You’re… you’re perfect.”

She laughed, too sharp, and looked down at her shoes. “I think Michael’s already started.”

“Yeah. He’s doing a bit about how Phyllis is like a fine wine.” Jim tilted his head toward the room. “You want to sit together? I mean—unless you’re with Roy.”

She glanced over at the bar. Roy still hadn’t turned around. She could walk over, squeeze between him and Kenny, listen to them talk about engine torque and the Eagles. She could pretend she was part of the conversation. Or she could not.

“I’m not,” she said quietly.

Jim’s brow lifted. “Okay then.”

He gestured toward the tables, and she followed him through the maze of chairs and fake plants. He pulled out a seat for her near the back, close enough to the speakers that Michael’s voice blurred into background noise, but far enough that she could still hear herself think.

She sat. He sat beside her. Their knees brushed under the table.

“Margarita?” he asked.

She nodded. “Definitely.”

The second margarita arrived in a plastic cup shaped like a cactus, salt crusted around the rim like frost. Pam drank it too fast, the tequila burning a path down her throat and settling behind her ribs like liquid courage. She was laughing at something Jim had said—she couldn’t remember what, only that it wasn’t that funny, but his laugh made it feel like it was. His hand rested on the back of her chair, fingers brushing the zipper of her dress when he leaned in to mock Michael’s pronunciation of “Dundie.”

Then her name crackled through the speakers.

“And the Whitest Sneakers Award goes to… Pam Beesly!”

She blinked. The room erupted in whoops and ironic applause. Jim’s eyebrows shot up, delighted. “You’re being honored,” he said, standing when she didn’t. “Up you go.”

Pam stood too quickly, the chair legs scraping loud against the tile. Her heels clicked unevenly as she made her way to the front, past tables of coworkers who clapped like they were at a sporting event. Michael handed her the tiny gold trophy with a flourish. She stared at it, then at the crowd, then at the ceiling like it might offer a script.

“I—okay, wow,” she started, voice too loud. “I wasn’t expecting this. I mean, I know my sneakers are white, but I didn’t think they were, like, award-winning white.”

Laughter rippled. Jim’s was the only one she heard.

“I guess I’d like to thank… my mom, for buying them on sale at Kohl’s, and the Dunder Mifflin parking lot, for keeping them so consistently dirty that I have to bleach them every weekend.” She raised the trophy. “This is for everyone who’s ever scrubbed grass stains with a toothbrush at two a.m. because they forgot to take their shoes off before walking across Roy’s lawn.”

More laughter. She felt her cheeks flush hot, but she didn’t stop.

“And to Jim,” she added, the name slipping out before she could catch it, “who once told me they glow in the dark. You were right.”

She met his eyes across the room. He was grinning, shoulders shaking, and something in his expression made her chest tighten like a fist closing around her heart. She lifted the trophy higher, then wobbled slightly on her heels.

The walk back was blurrier. She misjudged the step down from the platform, ankle tilting. A hand caught her elbow—warm, steady, familiar. Jim. His thumb pressed against the inside of her arm, just above the crook, and the contact felt electric, like touching a live wire. She looked up. The noise of the restaurant dulled, like someone had turned the volume knob left. All she could hear was her own breath.

His face was inches away. She could see the faint freckle just below his left eye, the way his lashes caught the low amber light. His fingers tightened slightly, not pulling her closer, just holding her there, suspended.

“You okay?” he asked, mouth barely moving.

She nodded, but didn’t step back. Neither did he.

“Pam!” Roy’s voice cut through the hush like a broken bottle. “What the hell was that speech?”

He loomed behind her, beer bottle dangling from two fingers, face flushed the color of the Chili’s neon. Kenny hovered a step back, smirking like he’d paid for front-row seats.

Pam jerked her elbow free of Jim’s hand, cheeks burning. “It was a joke, Roy. The whole thing is jokes.”

“Didn’t sound like a joke when you thanked Halpert for staring at your shoes.” Roy’s eyes slid to Jim, narrowing. “You got something to say, man?”

Jim’s shoulders squared, but his voice stayed level. “I think the lady just accepted an award. Let’s not do this here.”

“The lady?” Roy snorted. “She’s my fiancée, genius.”

Pam felt the word like a slap. She stepped between them, palms up. “Roy, stop. You’re drunk. Let’s go outside.”

“Yeah, we’re leaving.” He grabbed her wrist, fingers digging in. “You’ve had enough margaritas.”

Jim moved half a step, just enough to put his body in Roy’s line of sight. “Take your hand off her.”

The room had gone quiet except for Michael nervously chanting, “Okay, folks, let’s keep the energy up!” Phyllis looked like she might crawl under the table.

Roy released Pam but shoved Jim’s chest with the heel of his hand. Jim didn’t flinch; he simply absorbed it, steady as a wall. The calmness enraged Roy more than a shove back would have.

Pam seized the moment. She snatched her purse from the chair back, trophy clattering inside. “I’m ready to go,” she lied, voice shaking. “Jim, don’t—just don’t.”

She didn’t know if she was begging Jim to retreat or Roy to behave. Either way, Jim nodded once, eyes never leaving Roy’s face, and stepped aside.

Outside, the parking lot buzzed with sodium lights. Roy stormed ahead, cursing under his breath about disrespect and ungrateful women. Pam followed, heels clicking too fast, arms wrapped around herself. She heard Jim behind her, quiet footsteps, making sure she got to the car safe.

Roy yanked the truck door open. “Get in.”

She stopped. “I’m riding with Kenny.”

“The hell you are.”

Jim moved between them again, gentle but immovable. “She said no.”

Roy’s fist tightened around his keys, but something in Jim’s steady gaze made him think better. He spat on the asphalt, climbed in, and slammed the door. The engine roared, tires squealing past rows of empty cars until the red taillights disappeared.

Silence rushed in, cold and sharp. Pam realized she was trembling. Jim reached out, hesitated, then settled his coat over her shoulders. The lining still held his warmth, smelled faintly of coffee and whatever soap he used that made her think of high-school hallways and possibility.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be.” His voice cracked. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, eyes stinging. “Just… tired of being a joke everyone else gets to finish.”

Jim’s hand lifted, hovered near her cheek, then dropped. “You’re not a joke, Pam.”

The way he said her name—soft, certain—made something twist loose inside her chest. She looked at him: freckle below his eye, shirt wrinkled from the scuffle, concern so naked it hurt to see.

Roy had never looked at her like that—like she was real and fragile and worth protecting all at once. The realization landed quietly, irrevocably: Jim saw her. And she was suddenly terrified of how much she wanted to be seen.

The warehouse smelled like cheap cologne and stale popcorn. Crepe-paper dice dangled from the sprinkler pipes, their edges already wilting in the humid air. Pam sat on a folding chair pulled up to a felt-covered door balanced on sawhorses—blackjack table, Dunder Mifflin style. Roy hunched beside her, elbows on the green, eyes locked on the dealer’s hands like they owed him money.

“Hit me,” he barked, tapping the card. The temp dealer—one of the warehouse guys in a borrowed vest—flipped a six. Roy whooped, scohed the chips toward his chest, and finally glanced her way. “You still got ten bucks left, right? Don’t just sit there.”

Pam looked down at the single blue chip in front of her. She had started with twenty; Roy had “borrowed” half before she’d even placed a bet. She slid the chip forward. The dealer gave her a queen and a five. Roy leaned over, breath hot with beer. “Stay. Dealer’s showing a four. Trust me.”

She didn’t. But she nodded anyway. The dealer turned a king, then a ten. House wins. Roy muttered something that sounded like her fault and turned back to his growing stack, already forgetting she existed.

Across the room, Meredith laughed too loudly near the roulette wheel. Creed dealt poker to himself at an empty table. Phyllis’s sequined sweater caught the overhead work lights, scattering tiny flecks of glare like disco balls. Pam scanned every face, a reflex she hadn’t been able to shake since Chili’s. Her pulse bumped when she spotted dark hair near the soda machine, but it was just Toby refilling a paper cup. She exhaled, irritated at the disappointment that rushed in.

Roy slapped the table. “That’s what I’m talking about—blackjack, baby!” His stack clattered higher. He didn’t offer her another chip.

She stood. “I’m getting water.”

“Grab me another beer while you’re up,” he said, not looking.

Pam threaded through clusters of coworkers, nodding at compliments about her cardigan—soft yellow, something she’d worn specifically because Jim once said it reminded him of lemon sorbet. She hated that she remembered. She hated that she’d cared.

Near the rollup door, the crowd thinned. String lights flickered overhead, casting jittery shadows across the concrete. And then she saw him.

Jim leaned against a pallet of copy paper, arms folded, tie loosened. He wasn’t playing, just watching, like he was inventorying the room for future jokes. His gaze slid to her and stopped. The corners of his mouth lifted—not the prank grin, not the polite customer-service smile he gave everyone else. This one was smaller, sadder, like he’d already heard every excuse she hadn’t yet invented.

Her feet stalled. Around them, slot-machine sound effects chirped from Kevin’s laptop. Someone shouted “Baby needs a new pair of shoes!” But the noise felt underwater. Jim’s eyes asked the question she’d been dodging for months: Are you happy?

Pam’s fingers found the bare spot where her engagement ring usually sat. She’d left it on the dresser tonight, telling herself it snagged on her sweater. Jim’s gaze flicked to her hand, then back to her face. The sadness deepened, and something else—resignation, maybe. He lifted his plastic cup in a tiny, silent toast, then pushed away from the pallet and disappeared into the crowd.

Roy’s voice boomed behind her. “Babe! Get that beer yet?”

She turned, plastic smile snapping into place. “Coming.”

Pam slipped past the roulette wheel, past Kevin’s laptop “slots,” past the cardboard cutout of a showgirl Michael had propped by the men’s room. The hallway to the office was dark, the motion sensor slow to wake; she moved through pools of gray until the familiar hush of cubicles folded around her like a blanket. Her desk lamp was still on, a small circle of gold in the sea of beige. She sat, pulse thudding in her ears, and dialed home.

Her mother picked up on the second ring. “Hey, honey. How’s casino night?”

Pam opened her mouth, closed it. The ceiling vent exhaled a mechanical sigh. “It’s loud,” she said finally. “Roy’s on a winning streak.”

“That’s nice.” A pause, television murmur in the background. “You sound off.”

“I’m just… tired.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Being here with him feels like wearing a coat that doesn’t button anymore. I keep pulling, thinking if I yank hard enough it’ll fit, but it just—rips instead.”

Her mom made a soft, worried noise. “Sweetheart, cold feet are normal.”

“It’s not cold feet.” Pam’s voice cracked; she swallowed. “It’s like… my heart already moved out of the apartment, but my body’s still standing in the living room, pretending the lease isn’t up.”

Silence, then, “Does this have something to do with that boy at work? The one who makes you laugh?”

Pam’s throat burned. She hadn’t mentioned Jim in months, but mothers file everything away. “He’s not a boy,” she whispered. “He’s—” The sensor light flicked on in the hallway. She twisted in her chair.

Jim stood just inside the bullpen, hands at his sides, eyes wide, chest rising fast like he’d run the whole way. The phone slipped an inch from her ear; her mother’s tiny voice buzzed, distant. Pam ended the call without looking away from him.

Neither moved. The vending machine hummed. A paper banner overhead rustled in the draft. Finally Jim stepped forward, slow, deliberate, until he reached the edge of her lamplight. Shadows carved the angles of his face sharper.

“I didn’t mean to listen,” he said, voice rough. “I came to find you. I always—” He stopped, jaw flexing. “I’m in love with you, Pam.”

The words hit like a physical thing; she felt them in her ribs, her knees. Air vanished. She stood, chair rolling back and bumping the drawer. Jim didn’t wait for an answer—he closed the last two feet, one hand sliding to the nape of her neck, the other bracing the small of her back, and then his mouth was on hers, urgent, tasting of the cinnamon gum he always kept in his pocket. She kissed him back before thought could form, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, anchoring herself to the moment she’d imagined and feared in equal measure.

When they broke apart, foreheads still touching, his breathing shook. “I had to say it. Just once.”

Pam’s ring finger throbbed, naked and cold. She opened her mouth, but only his name came out, cracked and thin. Jim searched her face, hope flickering behind the desperation, then stepped back, hands falling to his sides. The distance felt arctic. He turned, shoulders hunched, and walked away, shoes silent on the carpet, leaving her trembling under the fluorescent halo.

His fingers loosened, palms sliding from her skin as though the touch itself had burned. Pam felt the absence like a sudden drop in temperature, her body swaying an inch before she locked her knees. She tried to speak—anything, a syllable—but her throat closed around the ache building behind her sternum. All that escaped was a cracked whisper. “Jim.”

The name hung between them, fragile, useless. She saw it land on his shoulders and push them downward. His eyes, still inches away, flicked across her face: mouth swollen, cheeks fever-hot, eyes glassy with panic. He was waiting for the next sentence, the one she couldn’t form.

She lifted her left hand, half-conscious, and rubbed the empty base of her ring finger. The skin there was pale, indented, a ghost circle shouting what she had no voice to admit. Jim’s gaze followed the movement; she watched the hope in his irises gutter out. He swallowed so hard she heard it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough, apology offered to the floor. “I shouldn’t—” He stepped back again, another foot of fluorescent space opening like a chasm. Pam’s hand twitched toward him, then fell. Words piled in her mouth—wait, stay, I felt it too—but Roy’s voice, her mother’s expectations, the save-the-date magnets already on her parents’ fridge, crushed them to dust.

Jim’s tongue touched his lower lip, tasting where her lip gloss still clung. The small, unconscious motion sent heat spiraling through her so sharply she almost lurched forward. Instead she stood frozen, heart hammering against the cage of ribs, each beat chanting coward, coward.

He inhaled, started to speak, stopped. Finally he nodded once, a gesture so small it was almost imperceptible, yet it felt like a door closing. Turning, he moved between the cubicles, shoulders stiff, footsteps swallowed by industrial carpet. She watched the line of his back—straight, resolute—until he passed the last partition and disappeared into the dark throat of the hallway.

The sensor light clicked off. Darkness rushed in, broken only by the single desk lamp still shining on her trembling hands. Pam sank into the chair, the vinyl cold through her thin skirt. Her pulse thundered in her ears, mixing with the distant echo of warehouse music. She touched her mouth, felt the slight swell, the residual tingle, and a tear slipped free, landing on the desk blotter beside a stack of purchase orders.

Minutes stretched, or maybe seconds—time had lost meaning. She drew a shaky breath that tasted of cinnamon and regret, then killed the lamp. The office fell into shadow, and she sat there, ringless hand pressed to her heart, memorizing the silhouette of Jim Halpert walking away, branding it behind her eyelids so thoroughly she knew it would replay every time she closed her eyes.

Pam’s alarm buzzed at 6:42, same as always. She slapped it quiet and lay still, ceiling stripes of early light doing nothing to soften the ache lodged beneath her breastbone. She had slept maybe three hours, the rest spent listening to the whir of Roy’s snores and tracing the shape of Jim’s mouth against hers—warm, urgent, gone.

By 7:30 she was on I-495, fingers clenched around the steering wheel, wedding playlist CD still in the slot. Track one started; she ejected it and flung the disc into the passenger well like it might bite.

The Dunder Mifflin lot was half-empty. She pulled in beside Jim’s Jetta before remembering he always parked at the far end. Too late; the sight of the dented bumper made her stomach pitch. She grabbed her purse, straightened her cardigan, and walked the long hallway as if heading to execution.

He was already at his desk, headset on, gaze fixed on his monitor. Shoulders square, tie knotted tight—every inch the perfect employee. Pam hung her coat, sat, and swiveled toward reception, pulse thudding so loudly she expected the phone to vibrate with it.

“Morning,” she called softly.

Jim lifted a hand in a wave that never reached eye level. “Morning.” The word was flat, accentless, like he’d borrowed it from a customer-service script. He turned back to his screen.

The cold hit harder than she expected. She stared at the top of his head, willing him to look up, to smirk, to toss a rubber band, anything. He typed steadily, the clack of keys the only answer.

Minutes crawled. She opened e-mail: two supplier invoices, one coupon newsletter, zero personal lines. She sorted pens, refilled staplers, wiped dust from the answering machine. Each time she glanced right, his focus stayed pinned to sales reports, jaw set, expression unreadable.

At 9:07 Michael burst in singing “Here I come to save the day,” but even that couldn’t dent the hush blanketing their corner. Kevin’s usual wheeze, Phyllis’s sweater rustle, the gurgle of the water cooler—all sounded muffled, like the office itself had been wrapped in cotton since Casino Night.

Pam tried breathing exercises from a women’s-magazine article: inhale four counts, exhale six. On count three she caught Jim rotating his shoulder, the same tiny stretch he did when carrying boxes of paper. Their eyes brushed for half a second; his flicked away first, as though she were a stranger asking for forms.

Her chest constricted. She grabbed a stack of purchase orders and marched to the copier, needing motion. Halfway there she realized he’d risen too, heading for the supply closet. They met between cubicles, space narrowing to a shoulder-width aisle. Pam stopped. Jim paused, polite, waiting for her to pass. She stepped sideways; he mirrored. They shuffled again, an awkward dance that once would have ended in laughter. This time he lifted a hand, minimal gesture: after you. No dimple, no crinkle.

She brushed past, close enough to smell his soap—same brand, different day. The scent knotted her throat. Behind her, his footsteps resumed, measured, deliberate, never once looking back.

At her desk she fed paper into the tray, hands trembling so badly the machine beeped an error. She slammed the lid, swallowed hard, and stared at the beige wall, seeing only the outline of a man walking away, again and again, until the image felt branded on the inside of her eyelids.

Michael clapped once, loud as a starter pistol. “People, gather round—sales pow-wow, conference room, five minutes. Bring your smiles and your spreadsheets.”

Chairs rolled, voices rose. Pam saved the half-finished order form and followed the tide, choosing the seat that let her watch Jim without turning her head. He trailed in last, notebook pressed to his chest like armor, and slid into the chair closest to the door. Shoulders forward, chin down—posture she recognized from grade-school boys sent to the principal.

Michael dimmed lights, PowerPoint blooming on the wall: Q3 Projections, Comic Sans, yellow on blue. “Alright, dream team, who’s ready to make money?”

A few dutiful yeahs. Jim’s lips parted on silence.

Pam tried to track the slides—bar graphs, client photos, a clip-art stack of dollars wearing sunglasses—but her gaze kept sliding to the sharp angle of Jim’s collarbone, the tendon flexing in his jaw each time he clenched. He wrote nothing, only drew a small dark circle, over and over, until the pen bit through the paper.

“Halpert, you’re quiet,” Michael announced. “Give me some of that classic Jim zing.”

Jim lifted one shoulder. “Nothing to add.” The words scraped, voice box clearly unused since morning.

Michael waited for a punch line that didn’t come, then moved on. Pam felt the room tilt. She had done this—turned the easiest man in the office into someone who couldn’t muster sarcasm.

Her pen slipped, clattering. Jim didn’t glance up.

Slide twelve: Scranton versus Stamford market share. A red arrow plunged downward. Michael groaned. “Ideas, anybody?”

Stanley suggested lower prices. Phyllis offered baker gifts. Jim stared at the arrow as if it pointed straight through him. Pam saw his throat work, the small swallow that meant he was swallowing words bigger than the room.

She realized, with a sickening lurch that started in her stomach and ended behind her eyes, that the arrow was her—her silence, her cowardice—driving him down. Every second she’d sat frozen in the dark office last night was a nail in the coffin of the boy who spun Dwight’s stapler in Jell-O, who bought her chips, who listened like her stories were currency. That version of Jim was disappearing in real time, folding inward, and she was the one holding the crease.

Heat crawled up her neck. She pressed her nails into her palm, welcoming the sting, punishment for the ring still absent yet spiritually soldered to her skin.

Michael clicked to a new slide: a cartoon rocket labeled SKYROCKET YOUR SALES. “Who’s with me?” he crowed.

Jim’s hand lifted an inch, then dropped back to the table, surrendering. The small motion cracked something inside Pam’s chest so loudly she expected the glass wall to spider.

She tore her eyes to the screen, but the numbers blurred. All she could see was the rigid set of his spine, the way he leaned away from the table, already half gone to Stamford or somewhere farther, somewhere she couldn’t follow because she’d never asked him to stay.

The apartment smelled of pizza grease and Roy’s aftershave, a combination that used to feel like home. Now it sat heavy in Pam’s throat while ESPN flickered across the living-room wall, announcers shouting over a highlight reel she didn’t care about. She balanced a plate on her knee, crust untouched, and stared at the screen without seeing it. Every few seconds her mind replayed Jim’s cracked voice—“I’m in love with you”—and her own silence, thick as wet cement.

Roy sprawled beside her, one arm draped along the couch back, fingertips grazing her shoulder. He laughed at something on TV, a short bark that rattled through his ribs and into the cushions. She felt the vibration more than heard it, like distant thunder promising a storm that never quite arrived.

“Hey, babe,” he said during a commercial, eyes still on the television. “Mom keeps asking. What do you think about finally locking this thing down? June’s good for the guys—Darryl can get the tux cheap.”

The words hit like a slap. Pam’s lungs seized; the room narrowed to the gold band tattooed on his ring finger, the same one she’d slid on in front of a church full of people who thought love was inevitable. She set the plate on the coffee table, hands suddenly trembling too hard to hold it.

Roy finally looked at her. “I mean, we’ve waited long enough, right? Ten years, people are gonna start thinking we’re just playing house.” He grinned, sure of her answer, the way he was sure the Eagles would find a way to blow the playoffs.

She opened her mouth; nothing came. On-screen, a truck commercial roared, chrome and testosterone. She stared at him—really stared—at the stubble he never quite shaved, the muscle in his forearm flexing as he reached for his beer. All the familiar landmarks of a shared life, suddenly foreign, like returning to a childhood bedroom and realizing the furniture was smaller than memory.

“Pam?” He nudged her knee with his. “You alive in there?”

The question cracked something loose. She saw the next decade unrolling in perfect, horrible clarity: Sunday tailgates, discount cruises, babies named after his buddies, her art supplies gathering dust in a closet. Jim’s face flashed again—eyes wide, hopeful, then shuttered—and the ache in her chest sharpened to a blade.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

Roy frowned, volume of the TV dropping in her mind until only the refrigerator hum remained. “Can’t what?”

She swallowed, tasting copper. “I can’t marry you.”

Silence ballooned, thick enough to muffle the announcer’s shout. His eyebrows drew together, slow realization creasing his forehead. “You’re just tired. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“No.” The word cracked like a starting gun. She stood, legs wobbling, and faced him fully for the first time in months. “I’m not tired, Roy. I’m done.”

His beer paused halfway to his lips. Somewhere inside, grief and terror twisted together, but above them rose a fierce, dizzying relief. She saw the future she wanted—messy, uncertain, maybe already walking away—and knew she had to chase it before it disappeared around the corner.