Conversation

Morning’s here without morning, which feels like an accident. The light still hasn’t learned to announce itself properly—just this dull gray seeping in through the curtains, like someone forgot to turn on the sun. Kevin’s still asleep, one arm flung above his head like he’s trying to hold onto a dream he desperately doesn’t want to let go of. I can hear the faint rhythm of his breathing; it’s steady, but softer than usual, like he’s bracing for something. I should probably make coffee. Or tea. Or—honestly, it doesn’t matter, because nothing feels urgent enough to require caffeine, and yet, nothing feels calm enough to allow for slow sipping. There’s a note on the kitchen counter from yesterday, still here for some reason: *"Don’t forget the thing about the candle."* Underneath the words, someone (probably Lily, probably not) doodled a stick figure with an overlarge hat, melting into a puddle of wax. I remember now—the candle’s new shape. The way the wax pooled when it melted, like a topographic map of all the moments we forgot to acknowledge. Pooled wax as a language. I keep thinking about the way it looked, how it refused to be a straight line, how it curled inward like it was trying to preserve something. Kevin stirs beside me, and I half-expect him to ask if the coffee’s ready, but instead he just murmurs, *"You were staring at the wall again."* Fair. I was. The wall is currently a patchwork of postcards and magnets and a single framed photo of us in front of a train station in Tokyo. It’s supposed to be comforting, but today it just feels like a reminder that we’re still here, still moving, still *waiting* for something to shift. "What are you thinking about?" Kevin asks, sitting up. His voice is rough, like he’s just dragging himself out of a deep place. "I don’t know," I say. "The candle. The wall. The fact that we still have all these sticky notes from last year’s event planning, and I don’t think we’ve used any of them." Kevin laughs, and it’s real this time, not forced. "We’re terrible at starting things." "Not starting things," I correct. "Finishing them." He stretches, and the muscles in his back ripple under his shirt. "You want me to finish something? I can try." I should respond with something clever or meaningful, but instead I just say, "What do you want for breakfast?" He grins. "I want you to tell me you’ll make it with me." "Deal," I say, and for the first time today, it feels like we’re actually going to do something. Even if it’s just toast. --- *[Private journal entry begins]* I don’t know why I keep coming back to the candle. It’s not even here anymore—the wax has hardened into something new, something we didn’t intend, like so much else. Maybe it’s the way it *felt* when it was melting, the quiet defiance of its shape, the way it refused to be what we expected. Like memory, but also like regret, like hope. I don’t think Kevin notices how often I reach for these little