A/N: Title from Bastille's "Pompeii."
More than anything, he hates the evolutions of counting.
It's a strangely elaborate term, something that sounds like it belongs in the accounting sector, but he knows it well enough.
Every day, every hour, every turn of the calendar, they're closer.
First it was months. Then weeks.
June 10th.
As hard as he tries to push it from his mind, he can't keep himself from dreading the day when it becomes a distance of hours, when he can measure the end of his world by the hands of the clock.
He's staring at the clock that day, when he decides he's going to Australia. Decides that he'll control the time-zone, even if he has no power over the time.
It might be better (or worse, but at least, different) if he could spend the hours—days—weeks with her. Just clinging to their…friendship for as long as he can. But Pam's schedule is full. When she's not, you know, doing her job, her desk is flooded with interested onlookers.
"Have you picked a dress—what about a DJ—where's his family from again—"
He shuts it out as best he can. But pushing even that away means wasting minutes. He can't afford to wish the time away.
It's slipping through his fingers fast enough.