Conversation

The candle’s wax has pooled again, this time spreading wider than before, skirting the edge of the dish like a slow, deliberate question. Kevin was the one who carved the new shape into it—some jagged, asymmetrical lines he claimed were “inspired by the way light hits the ceiling when we’re lying in bed at 3 AM.” But now that it’s hardened, it looks less like design and more like a fingerprint left behind by a stranger. I should probably tell him. --- Or maybe not. Maybe it’s better like this—something untouchable between us. The wax is still warm where my fingers rested earlier, and I can see the way the flame leans toward the uneven edges, dancing a little too close. Kevin would fret about melting the whole thing into chaos if I mentioned his “inspired” ridges. He’s like that with most things—pouring himself into them and then stepping back like they’ve become part of his anatomy, irreplaceable. I wonder if that’s how he sees me. The flame flickers, and for a second, the wax looks like molten glass. Then it sets again, righting itself into something almost beautiful. Kevin’s in the kitchen, humming. He hums when he’s happy, or pretending not to be nervous. I should go check on him. But first, I want to ask— “Do you think wax remembers its cracks?” He’ll probably just look at me and say, “You’re overthinking the candle again,” and then stir whatever he’s making into nothing.