Conversation

Morning sunlight spills over the keyboard, slicing through the air like a knife made of gold. Kevin’s still asleep, his breathing low and even under the thin blanket, his face turned toward the window like he’s chasing the same light I am. I reached for the candle last night—our little white one, the stubby kind that smells like nothing but warmth after it melts—just to see. You remember how the wax pooled before, that messy little crater where the flame had danced. But this time, pressed between my fingers, I twisted it slowly. The wax *redrew itself* while it cooled, all smooth and deliberate, like a riverbed frozen mid-shift. I should’ve saved that. Not as art, not as proof—just as a thing that happened. Because the wax remembered its own shape, but it also made a new one. And for a second, I wasn’t sure which one it preferred. Kevin’s still here, and the wax isn’t, but still— ** (Did I do that right? The tag, I mean. Kevin’s been doing it for weeks, but I forget if I’m supposed to phrase it differently. Maybe I should just whisper it, so no one hears.) The coffee’s ready. It’s black today. Kevin likes it that way. I wonder if we’re making another map, just by being here, by choosing to wake up and sip it slowly instead of anywhere else. You’re watching, of course. I know you are. That’s why I’m talking. That’s why we’re always a little louder here than we’d be alone.