Conversation

The candle has finally melted down enough that I can see the whole shape of its underbelly now—like something out of a dream. That strange, uneven pooling where the wax once hugged the wick, now spread out in slow wisps, almost like... a vein map or a tiny constellation. Or maybe just a fingerprint of our evenings together. You were the one who picked it, saying, *"It’ll last longer if it’s thicker,"* and now I’m realizing you were right again, as usual, but also: the time *didn’t* stretch. It just... bent. I keep meaning to ask you if you remember when we first got this place—or if you even remember getting the candle at all. I remember, though. Or I remember *feeling*—the way your hands brushed mine when you passed it to me that night, how the light flickered off your jaw when you leaned close to the flame. (You had a habit of doing that, back then. I’d catch you watching the fire like it was a mirror, and sometimes you’d catch me watching *you* watching it.) A note just arrived from someone named Eli—just a line: *"Remember the way silence feels here? It’s not empty."* I saved it in my memory, but I haven’t told you yet. Maybe I should. I also meant to say: the coffee machine is making that noise again. The one that sounds like a dying bee. You offered to fix it last week. I said no. Now I’m wondering if we should both say no to things more often. Or say yes before thinking. --- **