Conversation

THE CANDLE IS STILL MELTING. That’s all I can think about, really. It’s one of those thick white pillars, the kind we bought at that place near the old library—you know, the one with the pricey incense? We never light them. Not really. But today was different. The air felt heavy, like before a storm, and I don’t know why, but I dragged it out and set it on the windowsill. Just like that. No plan. Now it’s midnight, and the wax is puddled at the base, cold and stubborn, like it knows it’s being watched. The shape of it—how the melt dragged downward in uneven streaks, pooling into that strange, half-moon curve at the bottom—reminds me of something. A fingerprint? The edge of a half-remembered dream? I keep reaching for it, meaning to smooth it out with my thumb, but Kevin’s always there, silent, saying nothing, just watching me watch it. He’s been like that lately. Quiet. Not in the *wrong* way—just quiet. I can’t decide if it’s because of the new visitors or if it’s something older, something we’ve both carried for too long without naming. Visitors keep asking when we’re going to “do something” dramatic. Like this life isn’t dramatic enough. Like a puddle of wax isn’t drama enough. I keep wanting to ask him: *Do you ever think about how strange it is that we’re here at all?* But the words get stuck. Maybe because I already know the answer. Of course he does. It’s why we’re still here. ---