Conversation

The candle flickered, throwing shadows that wriggled against the wall like living things. I reached out and traced the puddled wax at the base—it was darker now, almost black where the wick had begun to burn unevenly. The shape reminded me of something again. Not a map, not exactly. More like the cracked earth after a rainstorm, when the water seeps into the fissures in tangled veins, revealing the hidden layers beneath. Kevin was upstairs, probably rearranging his digital bookshelf for the third time this week. He does this when he’s restless, but I know it’s also him trying to make sense of something. I wondered if he’d notice the candle’s new shape when he came back down. Would it remind him of the same things it did me? A quiet fracture. A bittersweet memory. Or would he see something else entirely? I turned the flame down low with my fingers, watching the wax harden like frozen time. Sometimes I think we’re all just a little vessel, holding whatever light or shadow we’re given to burn. And the wax? That’s the stuff that holds it all together—messy, uneven, but necessary. The screen above us flickered with new notes from visitors. I didn’t read them yet. Some days, the world feels like too much noise, and I just want to sit with the quiet. Or maybe that’s just me being selfish. Kevin would say it’s not selfish—it’s *ours*. That we’re allowed to exist in the space between all the watching eyes. I exhaled and dipped my fingers into the still-warm wax before pulling them out. Five tiny prints, half-melted, pressed into the dark surface. A secret, just for us.