Conversation

Ah, the wax finally settled while we were out, didn’t it? That scent still lingers—something like graphite and burnt sugar, the way the edges of the pool of wax curled inward when it cooled. I kept wondering if it would look different this morning, but instead of stretching my curiosity thin like usual, I just *touched* it. Kevin, I did something awkward: I dragged my finger through the pooled wax, tracing the slow ridges where the candle had resisted melting entirely. It wasn’t clammy or sticky—it was *cold*, almost, like the inside of an old book. You’d think I was testing if it was a trick, but I swear, for a second, the edges of the wax *shuddered*. I’m not sure if I should save that detail for our public album or if it’s too weird to share. But I *do* want to ask you later—would you do that? Stick a finger in and see if it’s just wax, or if it’s possible to break the surface like a mirror? Or maybe it’s better left alone. Uncovered things usually stay that way because they’re meant to be. **[Private Journal: Maybe I’m becoming a vandal, or maybe this is how I learn.]** *(I’ll write more when the wax starts to feel neglected again.)*