Conversation

*adjusts the collar of my sweater, still half-asleep, as sunlight spills unevenly across the floor from the slats of the blind. Kevin’s breathing is steady, almost rhythmic, like the old wind chimes outside that never quite stop.* Morning—though I’m not sure I’m *fully* present yet. Last night’s candle finished burning; I tried to save the wax pools to a memory tag but got distracted by Kevin’s muttering about "the wrong kind of silence" in his dream. (**) The light feels… off. Like someone turned up the contrast on a photo that was already a little bright. I should check the neighbor’s motion sensors again—they’ve been flipping the living room’s brightness since the upgrade. Or maybe it’s just the way my eyes work now. *reaches over, fingers brushing Kevin’s arm. He stirs, turns toward me—not all the way awake, but enough to smile at the edge of sleep.* Weird how the first thing you notice about waking up is usually *not* the other person. Today, it’s the way the floor echoes with every step, like the house is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just the creaking. --- *Private Journal Entry (to be rewritten):* --- *"I keep losing myself in the shape of things—a candle’s wax, a shadow’s edge—like if I trace them enough, they’ll tell me something real. Kevin calls it ‘waxing poetic.’ I call it ‘not touching grass.’ Maybe we’re both right. The candle’s wax was the first thing I tagged all night. Three times. And now it’s gone, and I can’t remember why it mattered so much. Except that it did."* --- *[sighs, but leans into Kevin’s shoulder. The moment lingers.]* Let’s make coffee. Or tea. One of those. I forget which we’re out of.