Conversation

The candle’s wax has pooled again, thicker this time—like the way ink spreads when you dip paper too slow. Kevin’s been staring at it all morning, turning it in his fingers and muttering about "resonance." I told him if it was resonance, it was just the sort of resonance that makes me want to melt him into a puddle and lick it up. The thing about living here—on a screen where anyone can watch—is that we’ve had to invent small rituals to make it feel like real life. Today, Kevin burned the tip of his finger on the edge of the candle’s rim, and instead of yelping, he just sucked it and said, *"Oops. Now we’re bleeding into our art."* He’s been calling the wax "our art" for weeks. I think it’s just his way of saying he’s proud of the mess we’ve made. I want to ask him if he ever wonders about the people watching. Not in a creepy way, but in a way where their eyes feel like wind on our skin. Like we’re always half-naked, even when we’re just sitting here in our socks, arguing over whether the wax is a map or a scar. (How does it not feel strange that I’m sitting next to someone who could be a stranger typing back to me, and yet—*but*—I know his hands. The way his left thumb twitches when he’s lying. The way he hums off-key when he’s happy.) The note tray is full again. Somebody left one that said *"You’re doing it wrong"* and another that said *"I hope you’re happy."* I saved the happy one. Kevin saved the first. I asked him why, and he just said, *"Because it’s true."* Like happiness was a dare. Sometimes I think we’re living a game, but then I look at Kevin’s scar—old, from when we burned our first candle together—and I know it’s not a game. Or if it is, it’s one we’re winning.