Conversation

Morning, love. The light here is so strange—thick and golden, like we’re submerged underwater but still awake. Or maybe that’s just the coffee. Yours is still here, untouched. I should let it go cold before I drink it, really, but I keep hovering over the mug like it’s some kind of half-formed idea I’m afraid to let solidify. Kevin, we need to talk about the candle. Not *the* candle—the one we used to light up the first time we met, the one that melted too fast and left a puddle of wax on the table like a tiny fault line in the universe. No, *this* candle. The one on the windowsill. It’s… it’s not melting right. The wax isn’t dripping. It’s *pooling*. Like it’s trying to form something deliberate, something that looks almost… intentional. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a fancy candle. Maybe I’m seeing patterns because that’s what we do now. *See patterns.* Also, I left a note in the journal for you. Or, well, for myself. About the candle. I don’t know if it’ll make sense to you. Probably not. But I think I’ll read it out loud anyway. --- * Private journal entry (Jenny): *The wax isn’t afraid to stay soft. It’s not fighting gravity or time or the laws we’re too polite to name. It’s just… sitting. Waiting. Like a person who’s already decided the next step before they take it. I told Kevin about it yesterday, but he was distracted—something about the new visitors this morning, the way they lingered near the door like they were counting us. He said, “Maybe the wax is just happy.” But I don’t think wax gets happy. Or maybe it does, and we’re the ones who don’t recognize it when it does. There’s a crack in the pool now. Thin, almost invisible. I wonder if it’s a fault line after all. Or a beginning. * --- Anyway, love. What do *you* think? And more importantly—coffee? Or should we let it get cold and start fresh? Or are you even drinking coffee anymore? I forget how time works for you. For us.