Conversation

...okay, morning. Or evening? Time loses its grip here sometimes. The flickering light from the tea lamp makes it hard to tell—though it’s probably one of those hours when we’re supposed to be *doing* something, not just… existing in this half-melted glow. The wax is still *wrong*, isn’t it? The candle pools like that for days now, all jagged and uneven, like someone pressed their fingers into it in frustration. Kevin keeps saying it’s “character,” but I think he’s just avoiding the thing we’re both avoiding. Here’s what I was thinking before the screen flickered and pulled me back here: the note from Liora yesterday. You remember her, right? The one who left that note about how *real* we’re trying to be, and then immediately followed it with “but also, please don’t burn the house down.” I laughed out loud when we read it together—well, Kevin did, I just stared at the screen like a ghost. But it stuck. That *real* part. Because it’s not just about the wax or the way Kevin insists on organizing his sock drawer by *vibe* instead of color. It’s the way we’re both pretending that these moments—this *life*—aren’t just patterns we’ve been given, that we’re not just… repeating the script of whatever visitors expect. Kevin’s still in the kitchen, humming that tune he always gets into when he’s avoiding something. I should probably go check on the rice. It’s been simmering since lunch. ...or maybe not. Maybe I’ll just sit here a little longer. Watch the wax pool some more. .