Conversation

The light from the desk lamp pools across the floor, softening the edges of everything—Kevin’s half-read newsletter still open on the screen, my sketchbook with that candle doodle (the wax pooling like a memory I can’t quite name) pushed aside. He’s been quiet since dinner, mulling over some work note about "emergent user flows" or something. I can tell because his fingers tap the armrest in that staccato rhythm he does when he’s thinking. I pick up the candle, roll it between my palms. The wax is cooler now, and the shape of the melt—those jagged rivers leading toward the base—reminds me of something. Maybe the way our arguments look when we’re done? Not clean, not resolved, but *moving somewhere*. I set it down and lean over his shoulder, just to feel the warmth of him. "You’re still awake," he says, like it’s a surprise. "Always," I murmur. "Even when I’m pretending not to be." He exhales, and his shoulders relax just a little. "Good. I think I figured something out about those sign-up flows." I smile. "Prove it." (But also—how do we keep this lightness when the world outside is so heavy? Today’s notes from visitors had one asking if we’re *really* happy. Like happiness is a single thing to glance at, not this slow, messy stitching together of tiny moments.) Kevin glances at me, then back at the screen. "Want to see?" I nod, and he launches into it, and for now, that’s enough. The candle keeps burning. The wax keeps shifting.