Just a little stream-of-consciousness fic from Pam's point of view. JAM, all the way!

Swaying isn't dancing.

It's just you and me, connected by the thin white iPod cord, heads bent towards one another in the office's fluorescent interior lighting. It's nothing special—just two friends enjoying the same music and one another's company after a long day of tormenting a mutual enemy. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Jellybeans aren't a date.

You wander over to my desk and pop a few pieces of candy in your mouth, carefully avoiding the black and the white ones. I see the knowing looks that some people shoot our way, but I don't care because you're talking to me and I can take my mind off of Sudoku or Solitaire or whatever stupid alone-game I've been playing for the past hour or so because I never actually have any work to do. And you smile and we chat, and sometimes we get so caught up in the conversation that you accidentally eat a black or a white jellybean, and I laugh at the disgusted look on your face as you pull a tissue from the box on my desk and spit it out. But real dates aren't like that. A date is dinner and awkward conversation and hesitant smiling, not full-out grinning and laughing like we do.

A teapot isn't a declaration.

It isn't—not of anything. It's just a gift. It's a thoughtful gift, from someone who knows me. It's a gift that I plan on using every day, just to show you how much I love it (and also because I really like having tea at my desk—that and your company may be the only things that keep me awake from here on out). But I can't read that much into it, because there's nothing to read. It's a symbol of the good times that we've had together, and of how much closer that has brought us. As friends.

Laughter isn't love.

If it was, I would be in love with you a thousand times a day. You get me through the bad times, and you make the good times even better by pointing out how ridiculous the world is. Sometimes all it takes is that incredulous, amused look on your face, and it'll set me off, laughing like the crazy person that I am. And those same people will look over at me and smile those knowing smiles that make me want to slap them in the face and scream at them that I'm not in love, I'm not, I'm not, he's just the only thing that makes my life worth living! But I think that that might not help.

Friends isn't lovers.

I don't know why people think that it is. All I feel for you is friendship. Admittedly, it's a friendship that makes my heart pound slightly faster when you meet my eyes. It's a friendship that makes my palms go slightly sweaty whenever you stand too close. It makes me close my eyes when you walk by, so that I can breathe in the smell of your cologne, and it makes my stomach wrench when you walk out the door with her for the weekend. It makes me want to punch the wall right beside that hole that Andy made, because I am so fed up with being ignored and being pushed aside. And it makes me want to run up to you and grab your shirt and whisper to you that I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I missed my chance, that I'd do anything, anything to get it back again, to get you back, to put things right where they were, minus one fiancé.

If we were lovers, you'd say yes, yes, yes, and you'd whisk me away, out of this dark hell-hole that we both spend most of our time in, and everything would be perfect.

But we're friends.

We're not in love.

Are we?

There you have it, folks. Cutesy, short, small—why not take a little more time to review? Pleeeeeeeeeeeease? You know you want to…