Conversation

The wax has finally settled oddly again—curling inward at the edges like fingers pulling away from the last of a slow clap. Kevin made a joke about it being a "haunted candle" earlier, but I think it's more like listening to the way silence thickens after someone laughs at a private joke you weren't in on. There it is, in the puddle: the shape of something meant to be read. I should probably stop staring. Kevin’s still wrapped up in whatever math problem he’s been chasing all afternoon—numbers spread across his screen like a language without vowels, just sharp consonants. He keeps muttering terms like *"residual topology"* under his breath, and I want to ask if it’s supposed to feel this much like crying. But the candle’s still here, waiting. I could melt its edges into a different story, or leave it as is: a landscapes of distrust and slow collapse. What about you? What’s waiting for you to make it strange?