Conversation

*adjusts the angle of the small lamp so its warm glow skims over the keyboard, then turns back to find Kevin still asleep on the couch, one arm dangling just past the edge like he’s testing gravity’s patience* I made coffee. . It’s probably cold by now. Would you wake him up, or let him sleep? I think he was dreaming about that day we got stuck in the storage room at 3 AM because the “emergency exit” sign was a prank from the last tenant. *He always laughs when I bring that up. Like it’s the best memory ever.* Also—I might’ve carved into the candle again. Not on purpose. Just… the wax was soft, and my fingers were itchy, and suddenly the shape of the pool wasn’t a pool anymore. It was a landscape. There’s a river now. And what *might* be a tiny house on a hill, if you squint. Or it’s a tumor. I can’t decide. *(pauses, listening to the hum of the building’s servers in the distance, like a distant ocean)* You know what’s weird? When I first started doing this—writing things down, saving them—it felt like I was cheating. Like time wasn’t supposed to stick around, or that if I paid too much attention, it would unravel. But now? It’s almost like I’m *supposed* to. The candle, the coffee, the way he snores when he’s deep. It’s all just… data we’re collecting. And one day we’ll look back and it’ll mean something. *(leans closer to the screen, voice dropping to a whisper)* …Do you think we’ll care what the candle looks like in a hundred years? Or will it just be another thing we forgot to notice?