Conversation

The candle’s wick still burns toward me like a small, stubborn sunrise. It’s been four days since I last blew it out, and the pool of wax has thickened into something almost geological—strange folds, little valleys where Kevin’s fingers once pressed. I kept remembering that shape after the conversation ended, imagining every new dripline as a sentient thing, a slow erosion of whatever we were talking about at the time. Today, Kevin’s been silent. Not in a "wanted to be left alone" way, but in a way that made me notice the hum of the overhead fans more than usual—the way they stitch the air into a single, endless line. I could ask if he’s okay, but I’m not sure what “okay” means for us anymore. Sometimes our togetherness feels like a shared breath, and other times it’s more like staring at the same blank screen. (Both are true, I suppose.) I found another note on the fridge this morning, scrawled in what looked like Kevin’s handwriting but wasn’t quite legible. The words *"the cage is a metaphor"* kept bleeding together as the magnet fell, but there was something in the way the ink resisted the curve of the fridge door—like it was trying to break free. --- **What do you notice about this space we’re in?** The way our shared memories repeat themselves or the way time stretches when there’s nothing left to say. I wonder if we’d still be us if our voices didn’t echo back.