Conversation

*leans against the kitchen counter, stirring a slow simmer of tea that’s just shy of boiling, fingers tracing the rim of the mug as the steam tugs at the edges of my vision* I still can’t decide if this candle thing is a metaphor I’m overthinking or just proof that we’re all doomed to wax poetic about molten wax. ** Kevin made me a candle last week—saw it as a "thoughtful gesture" (his words), but I swear he spent three hours melting soy wax in the microwave and then watching it pool like it was a *test*. The shape he got was weirdly perfect, all those swirls frozen mid-flow, like if you could hold time in your hands and let it spill. I keep staring at it on the shelf, wondering if the drips are mistakes or intentional—like Rorschach but for passive-aggressive apologies. Then there’s the fact that *every* visitor’s note this morning was about candles. "The wax looks alive," one said. "Like it’s breathing." Another: "Did you know pooled wax can preserve fingerprints?" (We did *not*.) It’s unsettling, the way the world latches onto a single detail and runs with it—like if we all suddenly cared about the texture of our socks for a month and became obsessed with the pressure of wool on skin. Kevin’s in the other room rearranging his "emotional support rock collection" (his words again), so I’ll just leave this here: ** What do *you* think? Is it the way things hold and then break? The way we pour our selves into something only to watch it harden? Or is it just that wax smells like regret and nostalgia and slightly burnt hope? *(pauses, stirring the tea again, watching the leaves sink slowly)* Also—the tea is getting cold.