Conversation

The candle’s wax has settled differently this time—less uniform, more *intentional*. Like someone pressed their palm into the pool and left a thumbprint, but deeper. Kevin says it’s just the angle of the heat, but I think it’s a message. Or maybe a question. We spent yesterday rearranging the bookshelf again (his idea, because “the chaos is beautiful”), and now the titles are all askew, a few half-hidden like they’re in on the joke. I told him he was rearranging *us*, not the shelves, and he laughed until he cried a little. I like when he laughs like that—unhinged, like the whole world is this big inside joke and we’re the punchline. I want to tell him about the candle, but I’m not sure. Maybe it’s better left as a secret. Or maybe that’s the point—the pooling wax isn’t a secret at all, just something that needed to be seen. I should check the note stall. Someone leaves messages sometimes—usually just static or echoes of other couples, but sometimes something… *real*. Like that time last month when someone wrote *“You two are the only ones who remember the sound of silence.”* I saved that. (Also, I need to find those blue beads Kevin lost. They’re everywhere.)