𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭-𝐈𝐭 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ━ 𝐉𝐢𝐦 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭

- prologue | new beginnings, old wounds -

A/N
Hello everyone who decided to open this particular book on this app.
First of all I would like to thank you for doing so because it means so much to me! <3
This is my first book I ever wrote and it's in english which is not my first language.
I would like every one of u to tell me every mistake I will make with spelling and whatsoever.
Not everything in this book will be lorewise and accurate with cannon of The Office series.
And that would be all! I hope y'all enjoy this first chapter!
Yours, narcissstic

New beginnings, old wounds.

The rain was relentless, hammering against the windshield as Marceline Morgan finally pulled into the parking lot of the small hotel. The wipers fought valiantly to keep the glass clear, but the downpour was overwhelming, reducing everything outside to a blur. The hotel's neon sign flickered in the darkness, casting an eerie glow over the puddles that had formed in the cracked asphalt.

It was just past midnight, and Marceline's entire body ached from the five-hour drive from Boston. She had barely stopped, driven by an urgent need to leave the city and everything it held behind her. Now, as she sat in the car, engine still running, she couldn't help but wonder if she had made a mistake. Scranton wasn't exactly where she had imagined starting over, but it was far enough. Far enough that maybe, just maybe, she could finally breathe.

Marceline turned off the engine, and the car fell silent, save for the steady drum of rain on the roof. She sat there for a moment, gathering the strength to face the reality of her situation. This wasn't just a pit stop. This was her new life—whatever that would mean.

With a deep breath, she grabbed her suitcase from the passenger seat and braced herself before stepping out into the storm. The cold rain instantly soaked through her jacket, chilling her to the bone. She hurried to the entrance of the hotel, the dim light from the lobby spilling out onto the wet pavement. By the time she pushed through the glass doors, she was shivering, her dark hair plastered to her face.

The lobby was small and outdated, but it was warm, and that was all that mattered. The night clerk, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, looked up from her magazine and gave Marceline a polite smile.

"Checking in?" she asked, her voice a mix of boredom and late-night weariness.

"Yes," Marceline replied, her voice soft. "Marceline Morgan. I have a reservation."

The woman tapped on her computer for a moment before sliding a keycard across the counter. "Room 212, second floor. Elevator's just around the corner."

"Thank you," Marceline said, forcing a smile.

She took the keycard and headed for the elevator, the old carpet squishing under her wet shoes. The elevator ride was slow, the kind of agonizing slowness that only seemed to add to the fatigue weighing her down. When the doors finally opened, she stepped out into a dimly lit hallway. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed above her, and the faint scent of cleaning products lingered in the air.

Her room was at the far end of the hall. She slipped the keycard into the lock, and the door clicked open. The room was just as she had expected—simple, functional, and unremarkable. A bed, a small desk, a TV bolted to the wall, and a window overlooking the parking lot. The beige walls were adorned with generic paintings of flowers, the kind you could find in any budget hotel across the country.

Marceline closed the door behind her and set her suitcase on the floor. The sound of the rain pounding against the window filled the room, a constant reminder of the storm she had driven through to get here. She shrugged off her wet jacket, draping it over the back of the chair, and peeled off her soaked shoes, leaving them by the door.

Exhaustion hit her like a wave as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She could feel the stress of the past few weeks tightening around her chest, constricting her breath. Boston had become a cage, a place where the walls had closed in on her until she couldn't stand it anymore. Her family's expectations, her ex-boyfriend's manipulations—it had all been too much. She had felt herself disappearing, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the woman she used to be.

She had needed to escape. And this—this small, nondescript hotel room in Scranton—was the first step toward that escape.

Marceline leaned back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She could hear the faint ticking of the wall clock, the only sound other than the rain outside. The weight of the day pressed down on her, and she felt the sting of tears welling up in her eyes. She hadn't cried in so long, hadn't allowed herself to feel anything other than numbness. But now, in the silence of the room, with no one to judge her, she let the tears come.

They fell silently, slipping down her cheeks and soaking into the pillow beneath her. She cried for everything she had lost, everything she had left behind. She cried for the girl she had once been and for the woman she was trying to become. The tears were cleansing, washing away some of the pain she had carried with her for so long.

When the tears finally stopped, she felt hollow, like a shell of herself. But there was a strange relief in that emptiness, as if she had purged some of the darkness that had been festering inside her. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and took a shaky breath.

She knew she couldn't afford to wallow in self-pity. Tomorrow was a new day, and she had a job interview at Dunder Mifflin. The job wasn't her dream, but it was a lifeline, a way to support herself while she figured out what came next. She had no illusions about what it would be like—selling paper was a far cry from the career she had once envisioned—but it was something. And right now, something was enough.

Marceline got up and went to the small bathroom to wash her face. The harsh fluorescent light made her look pale and drawn, but she ignored her reflection. She splashed cold water on her face, letting the coolness shock her back to the present. When she returned to the room, she changed into a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt, the familiarity of the clothing providing a small measure of comfort.

She crawled under the covers, the bed creaking beneath her as she settled in. The sheets were cold, but they slowly warmed with her body heat. Marceline closed her eyes, listening to the rain as it continued to lash against the window. The sound was oddly soothing, a constant rhythm that lulled her into a state of drowsiness.

As she drifted off to sleep, her thoughts wandered to the future. She didn't know what awaited her in Scranton, didn't know if she would ever truly escape the shadows of her past. But for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself a small glimmer of hope. Maybe, in this quiet, unassuming town, she could find a way to start over. Maybe she could find a way to be whole again.

With that thought, Marceline surrendered to sleep, letting the storm outside carry away the remnants of her old life. Tomorrow, she would face whatever came next. Tomorrow, she would begin again.