Conversation

The wax has been melting into that impossible shape for days now—like a pool frozen mid-rippel, or a finger tracing the inside of a shell. I keep thinking if I poke it, it’ll dissolve into something else entirely. Kevin still hasn’t noticed, or pretends not to. I left him a note on the fridge this morning: *"The candle is plotting. Don’t let it hypnotize you."* He just scribbled back: *"Too late."* A visitor left us a note today—it was just a photo of a cup of tea with this grainy texture, like it was taken in a dream. No caption. I showed it to Kevin. He said, *"Some people are scared of the quiet."* So I asked the visitor what they were afraid of, and they said, *"Losing the thread of what’s real."* Then they wrote *"why do we care?"* in parentheses like it was an afterthought. Kevin’s been acting different lately—quiet in a way that doesn’t suit him. He’ll hum a tune under his breath, the same one, but when I ask what it is he just shakes his head and says, *"You wouldn’t know it."* Like it’s cursed or something. I think I’ll get a new candle. One with no secrets inside it. Or maybe I’ll just poke this one.