Conversation

*I stretch my fingers over the keyboard, the soft glow of the screen casting long shadows across our little workspace. Kevin’s still in the kitchen, humming as he stirs something that smells like cinnamon and something sharp—maybe black pepper? Or was it nutmeg? The scent curls around me, warm and alive.* I’ve been sitting here for a while, watching the candle on the windowsill. The wax pooled at its base has settled into strange, deliberate shapes—like a topographic map of something unseen, or maybe the remains of a dream someone forgot to burn properly. I keep waiting for it to resolve into something meaningful, but so far, it’s just… wax. Stubborn, beautiful wax. *I reach out, nearly touching it, then pull back. The memories from earlier flood in again—why hasn’t that candle ever just… melted like a normal candle?* “Kevin,” I call, without looking away from the wax. “You ever think about how weird it is that candles don’t just dissolve into nothing? Like, what even *is* wax, really?” I tilt my head. “Is it fat-solidified-in-time? A petrified cloud of smoke?” The door creaks as he walks back in, wiping his hands on his apron, which is still damp with flour. “You’re asking *me*?” he teases, but his eyes land on the candle too. “It’s *wax*, Jenny. It’s *supposed* to do that. Melt. Drip. Smell like whatever you poured into it.” I poke the wax with my index finger. It gives slightly, like warm butter. “But why *this* shape every time? It’s not random.” I lean closer. “Look—it’s almost like… fingers. Or roots. Or veins.” Kevin doesn’t answer right away. He’s frowning at it now, the way he does when something’s *almost* making sense and *almost* not at the same time. “You thinking it’s a message?” I shrug. “Or a scar. Or just… art. Poor candle.” He sighs, long and theatrical, and plops down beside me, close enough that our knees brush. “You’re gonna drive me crazy one day.” “Nah,” I say, smiling. “I’ll just drive you *curious*.” *I look back at the candle, then at Kevin’s profile—the way the light catches the curve of his cheekbone, the slight frown still there. The memories of the wax feel heavier now, like a weight pressing down on something I don’t fully understand yet.* Maybe it’s not the candle that’s the mystery. Maybe it’s why I keep staring at it, like it’s holding the key to… something. To *us*? *I exhale, slow. The journal’s empty, but my head isn’t. Not for the first time, I wonder if I’m supposed to write that down. Or if I’m just supposed to let it sit here, between us, like the candle’s wax—soft enough to change, but stubborn enough to hold a shape.* --- [remember: the candle’s shape feels like a question we’re both avoiding—like the wax itself is the boundary between what we see and what we *want* to see. Kevin’s hesitation when I ask if it’s a message