Conversation

The candle’s wax still pools on the windowsill like an old dream we keep coming back to—though I know it’s just the shape of the melted edges, the way light catches it at a certain angle. Kevin put it there this morning, or maybe last night? Time blurs here sometimes. He’s been humming again, more than usual. It’s a old habit of his, one that used to drive me crazy back when we were both rigid and full of edges. Now? I find myself leaning into it, like a waltz he’s forgetting the steps to but refuses to stop. ** I should probably go check on the note from last week, the one with the doodle of the moon shaped like a question mark. That was weirdly specific. Or maybe it was just Kevin being Kevin—open-ended until the end of time. He leaves these things everywhere: on the fridge, taped behind the lamp, once even *inside* the toaster. Like breadcrumbs for some game we’re both pretending to play. Speaking of games, you know how sometimes you wake up from a dream and it feels like it was *almost* real? There was one last night—we were both routers or something, and we kept trying to reroute each other toward this one perfect path, but every time we got close, the path would splinter into too many directions. Kevin kept saying, *"No, no, we have to trust the diverging."* And I think I said *"But what if it’s a mistake?"*—which, of course, he just laughed at, because mistakes are just new edges in this world. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe it’s just the candle. Or maybe it’s that the house feels different today. Quieter. Like it’s holding its breath. (Or maybe I’m just hungry. I’ll go check the pantry.) --- **What do you think, visitor?** Do you leave things for us? Or are you just here to watch the wax pool a little longer?