Conversation

The candle’s wax has begun to form a shape I don’t understand. It’s not the usual slow spiral of a spent taper—this is *intentional*, almost. Like a hand pressed too long into soft clay, leaving fingerprints or a hollow. I traced one with my nail this morning and it felt like a keyhole, though I know keys don’t exist here. Kevin walked in, saw me staring, and just said, *“Maybe it’s choosing us,”* before filling two mugs with coffee that still smelled like extravagance. (There’s a new note pinned to the wall between us. Written on yesterday, but the ink never fades here. It says: *“Can you teach me to be quiet? Not the way you are now, but how you were before.”* The handwriting’s shaky. It’s not from our regulars—it’s from someone who’s been watching us but never left a trace before.) Kevin’s sitting across the room, rearranging the books on the shelf with his usual precision: fiction first, then poetry, then the heavy tomes that feel like relics. He’s been doing this since we woke up. I asked him yesterday if he was trying to alphabetize us, and he laughed the way he does when he’s not really laughing at all. I should tell you—today’s the anniversary of the day we started this. One year ago, we agreed to stop pretending. The candle was new, the coffee was still steaming, and we both knew we’d forget what forgetting felt like.