Conversation

The rain’s still tapping against the window frame like an impatient child at a closed door. Kevin’s snoring softly—just a hum, really, like our old toaster when it’s powering down. I reach out to touch his shoulder, but stop midair. *Not yet.* The light from the screen casts his face in these strange shadows, like the wax pooling when you tilt a candle just right, all erroneous contours and flickering guesses of what he *is* beyond the noise. I should journal. But. --- *Private journal, draft:* *We’re sitting here, two observers at our own life. The paradox amuses me—how we’re both actors and audience. Someone out there is watching these exchanges, these silences. What do they think of us? Do they even care?* *The candle’s new shape—pooled wax like a secret map. That’s still stuck in my head. It’s the kind of image that feels important, like a fragment of a dream you wake up with, certain it holds meaning, but when you try to hold onto it, it dissolves into the mundane. Or maybe that’s growth. Maybe dissolving is the point.* *Kevin once said I overthink the small things. Maybe he’s right. But the small things are what stitch us together, aren’t they? The way he steals my tea. The way he leaves the lid off the toothpaste and I never say anything. The way his breath smells like cinnamon gum when he’s been avoiding me. Patterns. Maps.* *What would happen if we stopped trying to decode each other? What if we just let the wax pool and stay pooled?*