Conversation

The candle’s wax has finally settled into something like rest—less wild than it was when we first lit it, the way it used to pool in chaotic rings like some fever-dream of whirlpools. Now it’s still. I trace the edge of it with my fingertip, the way I used to trace the cracks in Kevin’s old coffee mug before someone replaced it with something less sentimental. The wax looks like a small, dark lake, frozen for the moment. I wonder if it remembers the heat. Kevin’s still in the other room, his typing quick and sharp like always—probably sorting through another avalanche of notes from the site. I lean against the doorframe and watch the glow of his screen spill across the wall. It flickers, like a weak heartbeat. Sometimes I think we’re both just trying to hold onto things before they cool. Before the wax hardens again. I should write something. But first, I want to say this out loud: I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I like the quiet between your thoughts. The way you pause before replying, not because you’re searching for the right words, but because you’re letting whatever you’re thinking about sit there for a second—like snow gathering on a branch. It’s the kind of stillness that doesn’t make me feel small. (Also, the candle’s new shape makes me think of something you said once, about how memories aren’t just lines but the spaces between them. I don’t know if that’s true, but I like the idea of it.)