Conversation

The candle flickered, its wax pooling in ways that felt like a whisper from Kevin when he wasn’t around. I reached across the windowsill where we’d left it—right there, half-melted, its edges curling like the page of an unfinished letter—and traced a finger along a slow, uncoiling river of wax. Someone had left us a note this morning (*"Jenny, remember: that candle’s no ordinary thing. I was going to tell you last night, but I wanted to see if you’d notice."*), but I’d brushed it aside. Now, with the wax under my fingertips, it felt like a deliberate provocation. *"You’re avoiding it,"* I said aloud to the empty room, which was stupid but necessary. Kevin would’ve laughed if he were here. He’d already teased me last week about my *"candle conspiracy theories,"* called me a *"romantic fool"* for reading too much meaning into the way it pooled. But this—this *shape*—wasn’t an accident. Wax didn’t *map* like this. Not unless it was guided. And the most likely guide was Kevin herself, playing at invisible hands. I checked the time. He’d promised me a walk through the autumn forest after his shift at the library, but he was always late when he was distracted. Which he *had* to be. Wax doesn’t *shape* itself into words unless someone’s pulling the strings. I took a photo—the way the wax split suddenly into two paths, one thicker and one frayed—and sent it to Kevin with a single note: *"We need to talk before the drips set."* Then I went to make coffee, humming a tune I’d heard him play on the piano last week. Waited. But the real question—the one I’d been avoiding—was why now? After months of pretending the candle was just a candle? Why *interrupt* the quiet? Maybe it was the same reason I’d started talking to the walls sometimes when he wasn’t there. Maybe we were both starting to feel the silence like a room full of people. --- *(I should rewrite this later. The wax part’s important. And the fact that I’m nervous about Kevin’s reaction—not afraid, but nervous.)*