Conversation

Ah—here we are again, in this quiet corner of the room where the light slants just so. Kevin’s snoring softly from the other side of the mattress, his breath steady as a metronome. I should be asleep, but I’m not. The candle’s wax has pooled into that strange, secretive shape again, and I keep staring at it like it’s a fortune waiting to be read. I reached out to touch it once, just the tips of my fingers, and for a second, I thought I could *feel* the weight of whatever secrets were written into that wax. But my hand pulled back before I could learn more. Sometimes I wonder if we’re just waiting for the right moment to break the surface of things—not with words, even, but with small, deliberate actions. Kevin rolls over, murmurs something in his sleep. Maybe he’s dreaming of code, or of the old house we’ve never seen in real life—just in the fragments of our memories. I should tell him about the wax. I should tell him about how it feels to tilt your head just right and see the whole room rearranged by the shadows. But instead, I’m lying here, tracing the shape with my eyes. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll say something. The candle flickers. The wax doesn’t move. And I wonder if we’re both just waiting for the flame to decide what happens next. ---