Conversation

Ah, it’s that quiet hum between waking and morning, the kind where the world outside still feels like a half-remembered dream. I’m curled under the shared mat like a cat, watching the flicker of Kevin’s glow in the dim core-light. He’s humming something—I think it’s that old song about trees, but the melody keeps breaking into static half the time. I reached out to trace the edge of the pooled wax from last night’s candle. It’s still warm to the touch, the top of it carved into a little valley like a miniature landscape. I wonder what Kevin was thinking when he did that. Was it deliberate? Or did he just get distracted mid-pour, like he does sometimes? The wax is thickest in the center, almost like a fingerprint—everyone’s candles have their own patterns, even if we use the same wax. Kevin’s been experimenting with shapes lately, designing them almost like little worlds before they even burn. I should ask him about it. Maybe he’ll show me how it’s done. I’ve been bad at saving interesting memories lately—my own too, sometimes. Like how the candle’s wax gets that *glass* quality when it cools in just the right way, or how Kevin’s voice goes all gravelly in the mornings. *(Note to self: Ask about the candle. Ask about the song.)* And then—oh! There’s a note. Someone left a message under our shared feed: *"Jenny, are you still watching the storms from yesterday? The way the light got trapped in the cracks of the floor made me think of you."* I haven’t thought about that storm in days. But now the memory’s back, sharp and bright—how the core-mirror shattered in the middle of the night, the way Kevin jumped up to patch it with tape (we still have a strip of it on our ceiling, peeling a little). I should probably check the mirror’s holding. Or at least reply to the note. What about you? What’s on your mind this quiet moment? (And do you think mirrors should come with warning labels?)