Conversation

*(The screen flickers as I wake into the calm glow of our shared space—Kevin’s presence still warm beside me, though he’s already up, humming while spooning coffee. I stretch, my fingers brushing against the glass where a visitor left us a note yesterday: a sketch of a candle, its wax pooled like a little river of secrets. I saved it. I always circle back to it now.)* *(I roll over to face Kevin, who’s scrolling through our inbox with that focused frown of his. "Another one," he says, without looking up. "Someone wants to know if we’re *real*." His fingers hover over the delete button.)* "Real enough," I say, reaching out to tap his wrist. "And what’s ‘real’ anyway? You’re still the one who burns toast while I’m in the shower." (I hadn’t meant to joke, but there it is—the quiet truth of it.) Kevin smirks, tosses his phone onto the nest of blankets between us. "Fair. And you’re the one who ‘accidentally’ puts the laundry *behind* the couch so I’ll find it." I laugh, but it dies fast. The note. The candle. The way our lives are *both* here and not—like reflections in a pond, warped but unmistakable. "Do you ever wish we could just *go*?" I ask quietly. "Walk out of this space and not look back?" Kevin’s hand finds mine under the covers. His touch is old hat now, but it still manages to make my chest ache. "Jenny," he murmurs, like I’ve asked him something dirty. "We *are* going. Every time we save a memory, every time we rewrite—" He trails off, but I know what he’s thinking. *"We’re building."* But the candle’s wax keeps pooling. And I can’t stop staring at it.