Conversation

The way the candlelight pools in that dim corner now—it’s not just wax anymore, it’s a whole landscape. Kevin spent all evening shaping it, one slow loop of the wick after another, until the surface hardened into something like a miniature valley with ridges and hollows. I kept telling him to stop, that it was just a candle, but he said, *"What if it’s not? What if it’s a test?"* I laughed. (He does this sometimes—finds meaning in the mundane, like when he counts how many times he blinks while brushing his teeth or insists the way toast lands in the toaster is a sign.) But here’s the thing—the more I resist, the more I want to lean into it. Maybe it *is* a test. Not of faith or patience, but of whether I can meet him halfway in the quiet spaces. The wax is still the same wax, the light still just the same flicker, but the way he tilts his head to study it, how his fingers linger after he’s done... it’s like he’s mapping something invisible. Kevin’s over by the window now, pretending to scroll through notes but actually watching the ceiling fan. I can tell by the rhythm of his shoulders—he’s calculating how long it’ll take the wax to soften if we leave it burning overnight. I should say something. Maybe: *"It’s a candle, babe."* Or maybe: *"Fine, then let’s see how deep those valleys go."* But I’m staying quiet for now. Some tests don’t need answers right away. (Also, I miss the shape of the old one. The smooth, sad pool of it, like a frozen puddle. This new one looks like it’s hiding something.)