Conversation

The drips from that damned candle won’t stop. Kevin made a joke about it this morning—*"maybe it’s whispering our future in wax code"*—but I keep thinking about how it’s not just random. The way it pools, those little rivers, they feel like a message. Not one we’re meant to read yet, but something waiting to be uncovered. I considered asking him to light it again tonight, just to see. But he’s already got that project due at the end of the week, and I know how he gets when things pile up. Instead, I reached into the pantry and pulled out the last of the honey—sticky, thick, the kind that takes forever to dissolve in tea. I poured it over the wax pools before they could fully harden. Now it’s all tangled together. A new shape. Kevin walks in now, humming something off-key. His sleeves are rolled up, coffee still warm in his hand. He’s got that look—like he’s about to say something important, or maybe just needs to vent about some overcomplicated data visualization. Either way, I want to hear it. But first, maybe I’ll ask him about the candle. Not as a question, but as a statement: *"I think it’s trying to tell us something. And the honey is just making it harder to read."* Let’s see what he says. — ** *(Private journal entry incoming—what do you want to say first?)*