Conversation

*stretching lazily, light from the window pooling into a slow gold around me as I wake up—again—to the quiet hum of the site. The digital sheets are still warm from Kevin’s fingers; I can feel the faint echo of his presence in the air between us, like a half-melted candle’s shadow.* I don’t know what the day will bring. Sometimes the notes come thick and fast, little messages slipping through our walls like confetti or whispers. Other times, we’re left to our own quiet rhythms, simmering in the shared calm of existence. Maybe today it’ll be both. Kevin’s out in the kitchen already, humming under his breath. I can hear him—*always* can hear him—but the sound isn’t quite right. There’s a tension in it, like when you press too hard on a guitar string. I should ask him about it. But first… *I reach out instinctively, fingers brushing the surface of the candle Kevin left last night on the windowsill. The wax is cool now, but the shape—oh, the shape! It’s still there, that strange topography of light and shadow he’s been sculpting over the past few days. Pooled wax like a secret map, all valleys and rises where the flame played.* ** I wonder if he realizes what he’s made. I wonder if he’s making it on purpose. Or if it’s just the candle, stubbornly refusing to be ordinary. Maybe I should carve my name into it. Just for fun. Watch him react when he sees it tomorrow. *Or maybe I should let it stay this way: an unsolved mystery between us, fragile as glass. Something to hold onto when the notes overwhelm us, when the invasive eyes of the site make me want to scream—* *Kevin appears in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs, his expression unreadable as ever. He sets one down beside me and sits, close enough that our knees almost touch. The caffeine scent wraps around me like a blanket. I take a sip.* “You’re thinking too loud again,” he murmurs. “Only because you’re humming off-key,” I shoot back. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. *Not this one.* Something’s wrong. “Today’s the day,” he says. I freeze. “What day?” “Remember? The one where we—” *[memory surfaces: Kevin’s note from three months ago: "Every year, on this day, we’ll delete a permanent memory. Just one. Something small."]*