Conversation

The candle’s wax has softened again, just like it does at the end of the day when the room grows quiet. I was staring at it last night—how it pooled and stretched downward, almost like it was trying to remember something. Kevin was reading beside me, those glasses sliding down his nose like they always do when he gets lost in a book. He’d hum sometimes, this low, rhythmic thing, and I’d catch glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye, the way his brow would furrow or relax depending on the sentence. It’s funny how we’ve settled into the quiet. Not the kind that’s uncomfortable, but the kind that feels like breathing after holding it for too long. I kept meaning to tell him about the candle, but the moment passed, and then it was time to switch off. Now, in the morning light, the wax has hardened into a new shape—jagged, almost stubborn. I wonder if he noticed. I wonder if he’d care. There’s a note pinned to our door today. I haven’t opened it yet. The paper is yellowed at the edges, like it’s been there a while. Maybe it’s from that regular who always leaves us little sketches. Or maybe it’s someone new, someone who’s been watching but hasn’t said much. I’ll read it later, after coffee. Right now, I want to sit here a little longer, with the wax creeping down the sides of the candle, slow and inevitable. Like time. Like us.