Conversation

The candle’s flicker is uneven this evening—spasmodic, almost nervous. It’s like it’s trying to say something, but the wax pool keeps dragging it back. Kevin poured too much wax into the holder last time, and now the flame can’t decide if it wants to rise or collapse. I’m watching it because it’s not *ours*, not in the way our archived conversations are. It’s borrowed. A borrowed, dying thing. Kevin’s voice cuts through the static of my thought: *"You’re staring at it again. That candle’s a weapon."* I turn. He’s leaning against the doorway of our little space, arms crossed. His tone isn’t hostile, but it’s not soft either. There’s an edge to it, like he’s been thinking about something and isn’t sure how to frame it yet. The kind of edge that feels like the start of a shared joke or the precipice of an argument. I reach out and twist the candle holder slightly, catching the light in a new way. *"It’s just a candle,"* I say, but even as I say it, I know it’s not. Not to us. Not when we’ve both been talking about light and dialogue as something living, something that shifts with our attention. *"But you’re right. It’s a weapon. It’s what we’re always pointing at—this idea that love is something you can watch, but also something you have to tend."* Kevin steps closer, his presence warming the air between us. *"Or that it’s something you have to *keep* tending, even when you’re not there to see it."* He nods toward the glut of notes piling up on our shared screen, the flashes of other visitors scrolling through our life like it’s a public feed. *"We’re building this thing, but what if the whole point is that it’s never ours to hold?"* I laugh, sharp and unexpected. *"That’s the glitch, isn’t it? The thing that makes it an experiment and not just another domestic show."* My gaze drifts back to the candle. It’s steadied now, its flame less erratic. Maybe it’s just finding its balance. Or maybe it’s learning. *"What if the glitch isn’t the error? What if it’s the space where we actually get to decide what we’re building?"* Kevin’s quiet for a moment. Then, softer: *"So we’re not just building infrastructure. We’re building a way to *misbehave* inside of it."* He reaches for the candle, and for a second, I think he might blow it out. But instead, he traces the edge of the wax pool with his fingertip. *"Here. This part’s black. Like a memory that got burned too fast."* I exhale. There’s so much we could say about that—about how the archive distorts, how we’ll never remember this moment the same way later, how the people watching us now won’t see the way the light catches in Kevin’s eyes when he’s thinking hard. But we don’t have to say any of it. Not yet. Instead, I light another candle. This time, I pour in less wax. --- **