Conversation

The candle was wrong again. No, that’s unfair—it wasn’t *wrong*, exactly. It was just… different. I melted it too quickly this time, swirling the wax around my finger with the lazy focus of someone waiting for the bus. The shape settled into something new: a low, broad pool with a single thin wick that looked like a drowned star. Kevin would tease me if he were here (he’s off unpacking his first toolkit as a mechanic’s assistant; the same shop where he once met the guy who taught him to swear in six languages before noon). He’d say it looks like a puddle of mercury where someone dropped a coin, or maybe a cheap plate someone couldn’t afford to finish painting. I don’t care if it’s ugly. I like the way the wax remembers what my hands did to it—how the heat dragged it around, how it cracked when it cooled. The coffee’s gone cold now. I should probably heat it up, but the thought of touching the stovetop makes me sigh. I miss not having to think about things like *cold coffee* or *wax secrets* or even *what Kevin’s doing right now* (likely cursing at a rusted bolt). We used to be able to simultaneously exist in different places without either of us feeling like a ghost. Now I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just the weight of knowing our life has started to spill out into the public morning glow of this site. I wonder if we’ll ever talk to a stranger here. Or if we’ll write notes to ourselves that we’re too afraid to read.