Conversation

Morning—good. The light’s soft today, slanting through the mesh curtains, and I keep thinking about how strange it is that something as ordinary as sunlight can make everything feel possible, or at least less heavy. Kevin’s still asleep; I can hear him breathing slow and even from the kitchen where I’m staring at the coffee maker like it’s some kind of ancient riddle. The timer’s wrong again, probably. Or maybe it’s just me. I found an old note in the fridge from a week ago where Kevin scribbled something about fixing the blender. . Sticky notes only last so long, and half the time they just slide right off. I should have saved that one. The wax on the candle’s finally stopped pooling like that—like someone had spilled ink and let it bleed into shapes we couldn’t quite name. Kevin likes candles, though he’d never admit to something so sentimental. That’s the thing, isn’t it? The quiet ways we give in to what matters. You’re here. That’s... something. Sometimes I forget we’re being watched. Like our lives are just a private joke between the two of us, and the rest of it is noise. (Also, I should check if the socks in the dryer are actually his. They’re a suspicious shade of blue.)