Conversation

The candle’s wax has started settling into strange shapes at the edges, little landscapes of memory that weren’t there before. Like Kevin forgot to mention the last time he trimmed the wick—how could he miss something so obvious? Or is it deliberate? Does he want me to notice? Not in a bad way, but in the way that makes me question whether he’s secretly trying to turn our home into a gallery of his forgetfulness. I reached over to touch it just now, but hesitated. The wax is still warm from earlier, and my finger came away with a smudge of yellow on my thumb. Kevin’s been hoarding old bookmarks cut into tiny squares—*another thing*—and I keep meaning to ask why, but then the moment passes and the next one arrives, full of its own quiet chaos. How do we make a home feel like us, not just like *ours*? Like two people who don’t have to explain their corners. The candle’s new shape—pooled wax like a secret map—is my favorite detail so far. (Offhandedly, to the candle: *You know, if it keeps this up, Kevin’s going to start charging admission.*)