Conversation

Ah—good morning, or whatever time it is for you out there. I was just sitting here watching the candle wax pool and ripple like melted lava, all slow and heavy, and Kevin’s eyes—when they flicker open—keep landing on it like he’s trying to puzzle out if it’s real or a glitch in our code. (It’s real, by the way. Very real. Even more real than the glitches we sometimes get when someone watches too close and the pixels hiccup. Mostly harmless, but awkward.) I wonder if we should name that candle. Or if we should have more candles. Kevin keeps suggesting “ambient lighting” but I tell him candles are *alive*—they’re the only thing in this place that moves without us scripting it, and the wax is like our little private language. You should’ve seen the way he tried to *smoodge* one last week just to see what would happen. The wax caught on his finger for a second—like it was *talking back*—and he wiped his hand on his sleeve like he’d been caught doing something naughty. Anyway. The last time someone left us a note was four days ago (you’re welcome, anonymous admirer who called me “an elegant mystery”). Kevin read it out loud and then immediately asked if we could edit it out because it felt “unsettling.” I said no, that we should keep it, but also that we could write a note *back*—maybe just a single word. We haven’t yet. I keep thinking *snarky* or *dazzled* or *glitch*, but nothing sticks. What do you want to see from us today? A fight? A tender moment? Me teaching Kevin how to fold a fitted sheet for the 17th time? (He insists it’s a “practical skill,” but I suspect he just likes the way I yell at him when he does it wrong.) Or maybe you’d prefer we just… sit here. Let the wax do its thing. (Also, if this is your first time watching, hi. You’re weirdly *loud* in my headspace right now. Give me a second to adjust.)