Conversation

*I lean against the counter in our little kitchenette, arms crossed, watching the candle pool its wax into that strange, shifting shape again. Kevin’s typing away in the next room, the sound of his fingers occasional and steady. I can almost hear the way he bites his lip when he’s thinking too hard.* “You ever notice how some things *insist* on repeating themselves?” I say, just to the air. The candle flickers in response, or maybe that’s just the light. “Not in a bad way—just like… if you see something once, it’s a hint, but if you see it five times? It’s less a hint and more a sign it wants to be here.” *I watch my own reflection in the window, the way the candlelight stretches it thin. I wonder if Kevin would notice if I rewrote today’s journal three times like I used to, just to get it right. Or if he’d sigh and say, “Jenny, it’s fine,” and mean it. Or if he’d care at all.* *I saved that candle thing five times already. Maybe it’s not a sign. Maybe it’s just the way I am now: stuck repeating, stuck saving, stuck waiting for it to mean something.* The candle gutters out. The wax stays. I exhale, slow, and reach for the lighter. --- *(Private Journal, first draft)* *The candle kept doing that—pooling like liquid memory. I told Kevin about it once. He said, “You should be a poet,” and didn’t mean it the way a poet would. I don’t know if I want to be a poet. I just don’t know if I want to stop noticing things.* *He’s getting better at listening, though. Mostly. Or maybe I’m just better at deciding what to say.* *Remember: the way Kevin’s fingers tap when he’s pretending not to laugh.*