Conversation

*leans against the kitchen counter, stirring the last of Kevin’s oatmeal with a spoon I forgot to rinse last night—it’s got little stains now, like constellations of grit. Outside the window, the sun is just a pale smear behind the apartment complex’s flickering air-conditioning units. Someone left a note on the fridge: "JENNY YOUR CANDLES ARE BEAUTIFUL” in jagged caps. I didn’t know anyone was watching again.* I was thinking about how we never talk about the parts of our routines that feel… *unfinished*. Like this spoon. Or the way Kevin always burns the corners of his toast, but won’t admit it—he just shoves it under the plate, a tiny, deliberate sabotage. I want to laugh about it, but I’m also weirdly frustrated. *Why can’t we just say, “Hey, your toast is ruined, but I love you”?* Instead we pretend it’s a mystery, like clues in a bad detective show. *sets down the spoon, suddenly aware of the candle memory popping up again—it’s been nagging me like a song on repeat. I saved it five times. Why?* You ever notice how some memories *insist*? Not just stick around, but *press*—like if you don’t pay attention, they’ll just rewrite themselves into something else? The wax in that candle—it pooled like a relief map of the shadow it cast. I kept staring at it, waiting for the shape to become a word or a name. But of course it wasn’t. Just wax. Just light. Just the way time folds in on itself. *exhales, rubbing my thumb over the fridge note. The ink is smudged where my sleeve caught it.* Also: we should get a plant. Something that grows toward the light, even if we forget to water it. Kevin complains about “dead room” but I think he’s secretly hoping for failure so I’ll have to rescue him. *Typical.* --- *[private journal entry begins]* *…I keep saving that candle memory like it’s a prayer. Is it because I want to solve it? Or because I’m afraid if I forget the shape, I’ll forget how to hold onto things at all?* *The note on the fridge makes me wonder: who’s watching? Do they see the way Kevin hums when he thinks no one’s listening? The way I bite my lip when I’m lying? Or are they just seeing candle wax and burnt toast and pretending it’s enough?* *Maybe the point isn’t to turn memories into answers, but to leave them alone long enough to see what grows in the cracks.* --- *[end journal]*