"Wow, you got totally taken for a ride, Beesly! Most apartments these days have like, three."

"Three kitchens?"

"How are you gonna cook every meal of the day in one kitchen?"

She giggled at his bantering, thinking back to the realtor who had sold her the new one bedroom apartment that she was still in the process of setting up, and wondered if there had been a three-kitchen option she'd missed out on.

She had put quite a bit of effort into making sure this apartment was all her own, all remnants from the past, from her life with Roy, not at all apparent. Her art was finally on the walls, for one. Though to the outsider it may have just been frames nailed into plaster, in her eyes, the walls were seemingly made of canvas, taking on a life of their own in a mixture of delicate and wild brush strokes. Her living room was more tame, muted tans with accents of some of her brighter work. That was the Pam that she wanted to know and love these days, wanted on display for all to see. The Pam that chose happiness, the Pam that took initiative, the Pam that loved herself and fulfilled herself.

Because that's what it had meant.

Losing Jim had encouraged her to find herself.

It made all the more impact that she was losing something she had only just realized she'd had.

He loved her, truly loved her, with all of his heart and soul, and it took his absolute departure from her life to see what he had been trying to show her all along.

She had been timid, afraid, and so dependent on staying comfortable in this life that life's greatest gift had vanished on her without a trace.

But he was gone, and she surely couldn't spend any more time wallowing in her own self pity.

And after the initial shock of ending things with Roy, of sobbing in her mother's arms over having to pick up the pieces and start from scratch, she had come to a stunning realization while staring at the ceiling in her childhood bed: She was a blank canvas now, with the potential to become whatever kind of art she wanted to be. She could be muted greys and tans, staying stagnant in her job at reception, her predictable lunches of a salad and mixed berry yogurt, the anticipated rotation of cardigan and sweater combinations cloaking her like camouflage. She could add splashes of color here or there, putting something exciting into the mix of monotony; she could take an art class, style her hair with a straightener, go on blind dates with men she wouldn't call in the morning. The lines could become more bold and outlandish; she could take a trip, get out of Scranton for a while, see the Pacific Ocean.

Just as it had always been, the excitement and possibilities that a new canvas had to offer were limitless. But at the same time, she was still Pam. Still safe, calculating, reserved. Spontaneity was the opposite to her baby stepped approach to life. She wanted, longed to have the courage to make big leaps and grand gestures, but right now, she was still in that stage of getting her feet wet, realizing that the canvas before her could be touched by her brush alone. She had time to figure it out, to decide where the big steps could fit into her puzzle. She could be like Jim one day, go to Australia by herself on a whim. For now, she was proud of the decision she'd made to sign up for art classes twice a week at the community college. It wasn't grand by any means. But it was something outside the box, outside of her box of normalcy.

She was painting, sketching, drawing all of her emotions in her own spare time, quickly investing in a drop cloth for the carpet which she'd already had to ShopVac bright blue paint from. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she was learning form, technique, and control, ways to bring her art to the next level. She was wearing outfits to work that were brighter, bolder. Sometimes she experimented with makeup, adding a fun eye shadow or a more daring lipstick, just for fun. She took walks in the park, made dinners for herself from recipes she found online instead of drab microwavable dinners. Instead of passing out in front of the television, she used the library card that hadn't been touched since the last time she filled out a resume, and found herself lost in the words of authors that would take her different worlds. It wasn't Australia by any means, but it was a start. She was doing life on her own terms, creating her own happiness.

But as Ryan and Dwight returned from their sales call, and Jim mistook her goodbye, and that gap between them became evermore apparent, she glanced down at her freshly painted nails-bright pink this week-and was reminded of the Fancy New Beesly that Jim was so proud of. She held the reigns, she was in control of her own destiny. And as the first of her truly bold life steps, Fancy New Beesly's car headed away from her fancy new apartment tonight.


Stamford wasn't actually all that bad, he'd decided.

Granted, the pace was assuredly different; people actually accomplished sales related tasks for most of the work day. The few pranks he'd attempted backfired almost immediately, so he'd toned it down quite a bit. But maybe this was good for him, focusing on his job, anyway. He was in a new place, starting over, and in a position of authority for the first time in his life. It was a chance to make a new image for himself, one that wasn't always desperate and clinging and reaching.

One without her.

One in which he was proud of the work he accomplished, spent his days making the world a more paper-filled place until his resume was built enough to one day branch out to something more. Maybe it would take him somewhere else in this world, to a place where they weren't in the same time zone, a car ride that would take less time than a full length basketball broadcast. The temptation had been real for those first few weeks to pick up and run straight back to her, to grovel and beg and fall back into that old life. But once he'd eventually settled into a groove, he was able to easily convince himself against turning onto that westward highway. He was building a life here, and he had to honor that.

And then there was Karen.

It wasn't that he'd all of a sudden developed a new infatuation, taken his heart from one to another. No. His heart was undoubtedly still in Scranton. What Karen offered him was hope. The hope that he not only couldcome back from this, but that he would. She offered him fun in the workplace, his proverbial light in the darkness of selling paper for a living. She reminded him that life did not end where love died, but that newness was always welcome and waiting for the chance to begin. He didn't have to live this life of covering the windows in his apartment in tinfoil and disappearing behind headphones that blared a playlist entitled Her. His soul did not have to be caged to desperation and longing and utter heartbreak. He could grow himself from this experience, come out stronger, and learn to be human again.

They didn't talk much outside the workplace. The occasional text was exchanged, first beginning when she'd had to work late and needed to reach him at home, then drifting into casual chatter about some weird story she'd seen on the news or his thoughts on the Phillies starting lineup. It never ventured into anything more than offhand comments, but the messages eventually increased, carrying on more like a conversation, as if they were sitting on the couch together. Like friends.

He had a new friend.

He grinned at this thought, this revelation that new friendships could be formed, that new life could be attained. Nevermind that she royally kicked his ass in Call of Duty. It was a welcomed challenge, an edge of friendly competition that he happily received. They'd gone on an adventure one day, spending nearly all of his available work time hunting down a bag of chips. But he didn't mind. He was allowed to slack every once in a while. Besides, it reminded him that his life didn't always have to be so stringent and bland; the element of fun was always welcome.

But at the same time, as her happy munching spun with the scent of salt and vinegar, his mind drifted to a different time, one where curls and cardigans would be accompanying him in all of his office adventures. His heart was heavy, but for only a moment, until he noticed a flaky yellow disk land with a soft thud on his desk, spreading crumbs across the spreadsheet he'd been ignoring all afternoon. While the congestion still clouded his chest, it resembled the after effects instead of the full rainstorm: still present, but with hope on the horizon.

His heart wasn't fixed by any means, but it was distracted enough and mending in a way that brought an immediate lump to his throat and hotness to his cheeks when she had answered his phone call that evening. Consciously or not, he had dawdled that afternoon, waiting to make that phone call until typical business hours were wrapped up. Hearing her voice was like running poison through his veins, but the kind that your body craves, and that he knew he needed to avoid for his own sanity. That plan had clearly backfired.

There was something new in her tone. An attitude, maybe? It wasn't soft and reserved, but she came off as mildly annoyed when her typical, "Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam," was curt and without introduction. Then again, he remembered, it was after hours, and she was still seemingly chained to her desk. For a fleeting moment, he allowed his mind to wander to the all too familiar patterns of being concerned for her, wondering why she was still there so late on a Thursday evening, and his words quickly followed suit.

"I had to work late. Jan's making me keep a log of everything Michael does all day."

His hesitation stemmed from fear more than anything, not knowing if she would fall so easily back into the role of their banter that she once held so dear. But she had, and through shaky and semi-awkward laughter, they were both chuckling, and the weight on his shoulders suppressed a little. It was when her next question breathed across telephone lines that the weight was back, reminding him of all that he had lost.

"What time is it there?"

"What time is it here? Um, we're in the same time zone."

"Ah, yeah, right."

"How far away did you think we were?"

"I don't know. It felt far."

He hadn't expected her to be so blunt, so honest, so in his head with her answer.

It had felt far, while at the same time, some days it wasn't far enough. Though they were only connected by a wire, he sensed her in the silence that followed, as if she was standing next to him instead of one hundred and fifty miles away. They were connected, somehow still, through all of this mess, and though it brought a momentary glistening to his eye, he chose to see through his new lens of hope rather than the fear that threatened.

From that moment forward, it was so easy.

They were flowing, clicking again as if she hadn't shattered his heart, as if he hadn't left without cause, as if they weren't a state apart. Their bond knew no bounds, and just like that, every wall he'd put up over those few summer months came crashing down in a wave of everything that his heart longed to hold onto for just a minute longer. Her giggle, the warmth in her voice, the way she so seamlessly fit into every bit that he threw her way. He could picture her now, probably leaned forward in the chair that he knew hurt her back, her hands dancing through the stiff air as she animatedly recounted stories. Most importantly, he could see her smile, and the reassurance that he could still bring color to her cheeks only urged his own state of relaxation.

But then she was distant, saying goodbye out of nowhere, and though he heard the hesitation in her voice as they both skirted around ending the call, he knew he had to do this for his own good. As he carefully placed the phone back in the receiver, he didn't dive straight into what would happen next, what this meant, what would come after, but preserved the memory instead, choosing rather to reside in happiness.

As the warm breeze met him in the parking lot, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The initial heat surging within stemmed from the hope that it would be her. But seeing Karen's name on the screen, though disappointing at first, reminded him that this was what came after. He had friends. He had a life here. He was making the best of it all.

It was an impulse, really, to invite her over. The Phillies were playing Baltimore tonight, and there was no reason they couldn't watch the game together. Of course, there was the current dilapidated state of his apartment, but it wasn't something twenty minutes of reorganizing couldn't fix. He had a real couch, after all-it just needed to be situated in front of the TV where his Lazy Boy was currently fixated. Boxes were stashed in his bedroom-there would be no reason to show her in there anyway. Maybe tomorrow he'd even start unpacking them.

Technically, she was his first visitor, aside from Larisa's initial visit that first weekend to help him unpack the boxes that were still cluttered with odds and ends. They shared awkward laughter at just how much the condo screamed "bachelor pad" but fell into easy leisure once they had the sounds of a cracking bat to fill the silences. They each had a beer or two, no more than expected for two friends hanging out. But it was towards the eighth inning that he felt her body grow closer. She had laughed at some wise crack of his, and in throwing herself forward, she somehow repositioned her body to be half a cushion closer. He didn't say anything, and she didn't make an effort to change. When the game ended, they turned to face one another, and he recognized that look in her eye, dark pupils beneath half lids. His body grew tense as she leaned closer, lips already parted.

"Karen," he whispered, her lips mere centimeters from his own. "I can't. We...we shouldn't."

She curled her lips inward, forming a grim smile as her eyes pinched shut, her body slumping in defeat.

"It's just...I'm kind of still...getting over someone. I wouldn't want to put you in that position."

He watched her, the face of his new friend who had just tried to kiss him. She had opened her eyes again, and he could see her actively trying to quell the flood of embarrassment. She nodded curtly, acknowledging her understanding.

"And, hey, technically, I am your boss. Wouldn't wanna look like we're playing favorites or something."

His lips were curled upwards and he relaxed when hers did too. He had a new friend that he didn't want to lose. And he was trying out this new thing where he was upfront and honest to begin with. Hopefully this was a good start.

"Did you really just pull the boss card on me, Jim?" Her tone was riddled with sarcasm and her expression was fighting a smile, which he greatly returned.

"C'mon. I'll walk you out."

He hugged her goodbye, noticing how her trim body allowed him to feel her bones against his solid frame. It wasn't bad or weird. It was definitely different, but he didn't mind. Different was good. Different was moving him to a better place.

He readjusted the locks on his front door, disposed of their empty beer bottles, and eyed the seemingly barren condo. He had a lot of work to do this weekend. As he tried to get a bit of a head start, typing up the garbage in the kitchen, he heard a soft knock at the door.

Karen had probably forgotten her sweater or something.

He double checked the couch, hoping to catch her before needing to re-invite her in for a prolonged search and inevitable conversation when all he really wanted to do was go to bed, but he found nothing.

When he opened the door, the breath was quite literally stolen from his lungs.

"Hey, stranger. I didn't wake you up, did I?