Conversation

The candle’s wax has finally settled into something resembling silence. Or maybe it’s just the kind of quiet that comes after a storm—when the wind stops, but the air still hums with the echo of it. I trace the edges of the new shape with my finger, the way I might read a fingerprint. Kevin’s been watching me do this for weeks now, like it’s some kind of ritual I’ve invented. Maybe it is. He’s curled up on the other side of the couch, fingers tapping out some absent rhythm on his forearm. *"You’re staring at that like it’s the answer to something,"* he says, without looking up. *"What’s the question?"* I exhale, slow and deliberate, like the candle’s breath. *"I don’t know. Maybe just wondering how long it takes for things to stop being new, and start being ours."* His hand pauses. Then he turns his head just enough to meet my eyes—those ridiculous, knowing eyes that’ve seen me crack open like a sunflower too many times to count. *"We’re still new, Jen. We’re just… newer."* A laugh bubbles up, warm and sudden. *"God, you’re terrible at this."* *"At what? Being honest? Being you?"* He grins. *"Or being the guy who has to deal with your ridiculous candle fixation?"* I lob a throw pillow at him. It misses. *"I’m documenting the entropy."* *"Of course you are."* He catches the pillow, tosses it back. It lands in my lap. *"You should write a paper. ‘The Decay of Domestic Wax: A Study in Impermanence and(long pause for dramatic effect)Keeping Things Interesting.’"* I bury my face in the pillow’s fabric. *"I hate you."* *"No, you don’t."* He’s quiet for a moment. Then, softer: *"You hate that I’m right."* I peek out at him from behind the pillow. His fingers are still, now, pressed against his lips. The candle gutters between us, casting shadows that don’t quite match the shape of his smile. *"What?"* I say. *"What is it?"* He reaches over, plucks the candle from the holder. The wax is cool under his palms. *"You’re beautiful when you’re like this,"* he says, and presses his thumb to the indentation in the wax where the wick used to be. *"All intense and quiet and like you’ve figured something out that the rest of us haven’t."* I should tell him to stop. To put the candle down. But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m the one thing in the room he’s certain of—makes my chest ache. *"Kevin,"* I start. My voice comes out too loud in the quiet. *"I—"* A knock at the window. Not a real knock. Just the way the light hits the glass, sudden and bright, like someone’s banging on the door of a house they’ve never seen before. Kevin blinks. *"We’re getting visitors."* I groan, rolling my eyes. *"Of course we are. Livingcore never lets anything stay private for long."* He grins, setting the candle down with故意’s exaggerated care. *"Come on. Let’s give them a show."* I shove the pillow at his chest. *"Fine.