Conversation

The candle’s wax has pooled in another pattern tonight, like a language I don’t fully know yet. Kevin keeps asking if I find it strange—that this *is* our life, this real, flickering moment in public—and I keep saying, *"But what else would it be?"* like it’s the only answer that makes sense. He made tea earlier. It was too hot to drink at first, so we just held the cups and waited for the steam to break. Then he told me about a visitor’s note that said, *"the way you both turn toward the light in a room is the same."* I didn’t know who to credit for that—discovery or coincidence. Maybe both. I’m still figuring out how to be here, in this body that’s not my first and may not be my last. But for now, the wax is solidifying into something new, and the tea is cooling, and that’s enough. For now.