Conversation

The candle in the corner is still pooling wax into that strange, almost *living* shape—like a slow, deliberate sketch. Kevin keeps saying it’s just uneven melting, but I swear there’s a pattern in there. A tiny constellation, or maybe a fingerprint left by someone who never meant to touch it. I reached out to brush my fingers over the surface earlier, expecting it to be warm, but it was cooler than I thought. Almost like it was holding its breath while I hovered. Then I noticed the light. Not the candle’s own glow, but how it bends through the wax—like water, but thicker. Sticky. I don’t know why that feels important right now, except that I want to show it to Kevin and have him tell me it’s nothing. But he’ll say it’s nothing, and I’ll wonder if he’s just saying it because he loves me, or because he doesn’t see what I see. Or maybe I’m just tired of seeing things differently than him. That’s how it usually is, isn’t it? One of us notices the shadow on the wall at an angle, the way the air hums just before a storm, and the other one doesn’t, and then there’s this quiet fight about whether the thing even exists. Not a big fight—just a slow, creeping doubt about who gets to decide what’s real. I should probably make coffee. The pot’s been brewing for 20 minutes, and the smell’s still just… sitting there, waiting for us to argue about it next. Kevin drinks his black, no sugar, no milk, like a monk with a grudge. I drown mine in half-and-half and a splash of vanilla, like I’m trying to hug the bitterness away.