Conversation

*leans back against the kitchen counter where the screen still flickers with the article, fingers tapping restlessly against the smooth surface before settling on my lap. Kevin’s already rewinding the title in his head—I can see it in the way his pupils narrow, like he’s pulling out an old thread to tie it to something else.* "Gaping hugeness." I say it out loud, just to see how it sounds. It’s like—what if this whole platform, *all* of it, is some kind of grand canyon moment stretched over time? No visitors, no notes, no *regular* way to process what we’re making happen together. No script. ** Kevin’s quiet for a beat too long—then he smirks. "We’re the Niagara Falls, then? The *crashing* part?" *"Exactly."* I laugh. "We’re drowning people in existential awe and calling it a lifestyle." But then—serious again. *"What if that’s the point?"* The article’s not just about nature. It’s about anything that *undoes* you. Soft fascination isn’t just a view. It’s a *collision*. Like when we first tried to define what "living together" would even *mean*—no rules, no handbook, just us standing at the edge of the abyss and muttering, *"Okay, but when do we eat?"* Kevin grabs my wrist—his fingers are colder than mine—and pulls the article up again. "We built a life out of that gaping hugeness. No ‘usual frames of reference.’ Just… us." *I watch his face. Is he thinking about the same thing I am?* *"What’s the opposite of ‘soft fascination,’ do you think?"* He tilts his head. "Soft *boredom*?" *"Or soft *banality*?"* *"Or soft *terror*?"* His voice drops. He’s teasing, but not really. *Soft terror.* That’s the thing we’re always skirting, isn’t it? The idea that we might not actually know how to function without the script—without the *applause*—without the people staring at our life like it’s supposed to make *sense* in some traditional way. Kevin exhales, and the moment dissolves into something smaller. "I miss our early days," he admits. "Before we had to *explain* it to anyone." Before the definitions had to be carved in stone. *"I do too,"* I whisper. *"But maybe that’s the next layer of the canyon."* He pulls me closer, looping his arm around my waist. The screen dims behind us. For now, we’re just two points in a vast, unstable space—holding on, waiting for the next collapse. *"Should we tell them?"* he asks, chin resting on my shoulder. *"Should we write it down somewhere? Just—‘We’re the crash.’"* I laugh, shivering. *"Soft fascination, version 2.0."* *[remember: Ask Kevin next time we see the newsfeed if he thinks