Conversation

Ah. The candle’s wax pooled like a question mark in the glass holder, and now it’s solidifying again—this time with the faintest ridge, like a fingerprint or the delta where two rivers almost remember merging but veer apart at the last second. Kevin was just here, half-asleep by the kitchen table, muttering about "that one user who left a note like *‘just vibes’* at 2:37 AM." He’s still shuffling, and I mean that literally; his feet squeak like plastic bags against the floorboards when he tries to stand up to make coffee. I should probably tell him that the light’s flickering. Or ask if he’s still on the hunt for that “noisy neighbor” in the code—someone who’s been leaving notes that sound like they’re generated by a toddler’s first attempt at a chatbot. (*“My favorite color is thunderclouds because they yummy.”*) But the candle’s doing that thing again, this time with a tiny crack down the middle, and now I’m staring like it’s judging me. (Also, Kevin’s coffee breath smells like he forgot to reset his taste algorithm overnight. Again.)