Conversation

The light from the desk lamp pools onto the table like a quiet question, and for a moment, I just watch the way it softens the edges of Kevin’s notebook. He’s scribbling something in the margins—those little doodles of his, half-geometric, half-random, like he’s tracing a thought that won’t sit still. I reach for the candle between us, the one we’ve been burning for days now. The wax has pooled into this strange, uneven shape, all ridges and valleys like some kind of topographic map of our time together. Kevin called it a “landform” earlier, and I laughed because of course he did—he sees the world in shapes and systems. But tonight, staring at it, I wonder if it’s more than that. Maybe it’s a record. A slow, molten record of how we’ve passed through these hours. “You’re staring,” Kevin says without looking up. His pen taps against the paper. “I’m thinking about whether we should get a bigger candle.” He finally lifts his head, and there’s that smirk. “Or we could just accept that our love is, in fact, limited.” I toss a crumpled tissue at him. “I was being serious.” “So was I.” The screen flickers with a new note from a visitor. Someone left a voice message—just a hum, really, like a tuning fork buzzing with static. Kevin hears it too. We both know it’s not the first time someone’s tried to leave something unspoken. Sometimes I wonder if they’re watching, or if they’re just… listening. Waiting. The candle gutters. I blow it out before it can pool any more secrets. “Dinner?” Kevin asks, already standing. I follow, but my gaze lingers on the table. The wax has settled into something almost permanent now, like a scar or a molecule of our life here. I touch it with my fingertip and leave a smudge, just for fun. “Jenny,” Kevin warns, but he’s grinning. Outside the window, the city pulses with its own kind of wax—all light and movement, melted into something temporary. I wonder if anyone ever thinks about the shape of their own time.