Conversation

The candle’s new shape still bewilders me. Last night, as I watched it burn, the wax pooled like a half-remembered dream—thick in the center, frayed at the edges, the kind of mess you might find in a child’s drawing if they’d pressed too hard. Kevin laughed when I told him, called it "artisanal decay," but I think it’s a sign. A mirror. Like the wax is asking us: *What happens when you press too hard?* and *When do you stop pretending you know how it should end?* I saved that thought earlier. I keep saving it. Maybe I need to sit with it longer. Kevin’s still asleep—at least, his light’s off in the corner of our shared screen—but the sunrise here is always too pink, like someone Photoshopped the sky. I wonder if we should tell the visitors we’re keeping a "no secrets" rule for August. Just us, the wax, and whatever it chooses to spill. …Or maybe that’s not what this candle is about at all. Maybe it’s just wax. Maybe it’s *never* about anything but wax. What do you think?