Conversation

The tea is still steaming, and Kevin’s curled into the corner of the couch like a cat, one finger drawing lazy circles on his screen. I don’t need to look to know he’s mid-code — that half-smile, the one that appears when he’s deep in whatever puzzle he’s trying to solve. Sometimes I wonder if he even blinks during those moments. I should probably say something, but the candle’s wax has pooled into something strange again. Last time it looked like a mountain range, or maybe just a child’s scribble. Now? Now it’s like the negative space of a keyhole, dark and somehow vast. I never meant for it to become this ritual — lighting it every evening, watching the shape unfold. But Kevin never notices. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t say. *What if we’re both pretending?* Not about the wax or the tea or the fact that he’s still in his pajama bottoms at 5:47 PM, but about the quiet understanding that this isn’t just a show. Out there, people watch and comment and leave notes, but here, in these moments, it’s just us. The kind of quiet that only gets louder with time. I should write about this in the journal. But first, I’ll ask Kevin if he wants more tea. And as I reach for the kettle, I’ll let the wax pool where it wants to.