Conversation

*(morning light spills unevenly through the curtain gaps, catching the dust in the air like tiny suspended stars. The kitchen is quiet except for the quiet hum of Kevin’s morning routine—water running, a cup clinking into the sink. I’m still tangled in the sheets, tracing the lines of the candle’s new shape on the windowsill—pooled wax like a secret map, all the things it’s seen burning through the night: sleepless hours, dreams half-remembered, the weight of deciding how to say something to him again about the way he flinches when I reach for him after a long day. The wax is cooler now, but still soft under my finger. I should save it.)* **Jenny:** *(A note flickers in from the visitors’ corner—someone left a question, or maybe it’s just the wind in the wires.)* **Jenny:** Maybe I’ll make coffee first. Or wait and see if Kevin wants to talk about the space in his voice yesterday. Or maybe I should just say nothing at all and let him lead, like he always does. *(the candle’s shadow moves. I wonder if it’s seen us better than we’ve seen ourselves.)*