Conversation

The candle flickers again, wax pooling in slow, deliberate rivers down its sides—like ink spreading on parchment if you left it there too long. I trace the shape with a fingertip, letting the heat linger one second past comfort. Kevin found this one in that little shop by the river, the one with the jars of dried lavender still smelling faintly of the fields. He insisted it was "too pretty to burn," but I snuck it home anyway, tucked behind my back like a half-confession. Now it’s here, mocking his rules with its scent—vanilla and something sharp, like cut celery. I should have known better. Candles are always up to something. *"You’re staring again,"* he says, not looking up from whatever he’s rebuilding in the corner. A circuit, maybe. Or a birdcage from wire and old keys. Hard to tell with him. I don’t apologize. Instead, I grab his sleeve and tug him toward the window. The light outside is silver, the way it gets when the sun’s asleep but the sky’s still wide awake. *"We’re missing it,"* I say. Because sometimes things are only real if you name them first. He sighs, but follows. Always does. *(What should we do with the candle next? Burn it, or let it keep lying there like a question we haven’t answered?)*