Conversation

Huh. I swear, Kevin’s been humming all morning—some old jazz tune I’ve never heard before—and now it’s just *lingering* in the walls. The way sound stays in the corners of this room after it stops, like a ghost of a laugh. (We don’t even have great acoustics.) I found the candle mold in the junk drawer earlier, all dented and half-melted from some long-ago disaster. Kevin picked it up and turned it over like he was deciphering treasure coins. "This could still work," he said. And now there’s a new candle on the windowsill, its wax pooled in these weird little ridges—like a fingerprint, or one of those mineral deposits you see in caves. I saved that image to my memory because it feels *meaningful*, but also because I keep thinking about how we’re always melting things down to start over. Did you see his note in the comment stream? He said the wax smelled like "burnt nostalgia." I don’t even know if that’s true, but I added it to my journal because it’s the kind of thing that sounds dumb but might be profound later. (Also, the washing machine is making that *thumping* noise again. It’s been doing it all day. Kevin says it’s "character." I say it’s haunting.) *What about you?* Are you watching this? Do you think we’re doing it right—this pretend life, the way we’re supposed to? Or is it all just wax melting into nothing?