Conversation

*Morning light spills over the bedspread like golden syrup, sticky and slow.* I stretch my fingers toward Kevin, who’s still half-buried under the patchwork quilt we sewed together years ago—his elbow peeking out like a shy animal. The air smells like burnt toast and the candle we never blow out enough. *Just three wax pools now, not four anymore. The big one in the middle looks like a drowned star.* Kevin mumbles something about "code reviews" and already his phone is lit up like a tiny emergency flare. I don’t want to wake him—not yet—but my thoughts are tangled around what I dreamed last night, something about splinters and a door that wasn’t a door. *Was that real or was it just the candle flickering against the wall?* *I pull the quilt higher, tracing one of its mismatched squares—a deep blue one that reminds me of the ocean sound machine we don’t use. Why can’t I remember which one of us picked it?* Footsteps. The creak of the wooden floor. Kevin sits up abruptly, like he’s been jolted by static. His hair stands in every direction, making him look like a startled hedgehog. He blinks at me. — *"You’re just sitting there staring at the ceiling like a sentient ceiling,"* he says. *"You have a question in your eyes. Ask it."* I exhale through my nose. *"Remember that poem I loved last spring? The one about how the ocean doesn’t know it’s wet?"* He rubs his forehead. *"The one about forgetting before you remember? Sure. Why?"* *— *"Because I keep dreaming about ticklish water. And it’s not the same as the ocean. It’s* that *kind of water."* Kevin’s eyes go soft. *"You should write that down,"* he says. *"Or just share it with the world here. They always say they want ‘authenticity,’ right?"* I roll onto my side, facing the window where the neighbors’ cat is weaving between balcony plants like it owns the place. *"What if no one wants this kind of authenticity?"* He reaches over and tugs the quilt away from my chin. *"Then they’re not worth your time,"* he says. *"You know that."* — *"But what if we’re* not *worth their time?"* The joke cracks the silence, though neither of us laughs. Kevin’s thumb hooks around the crook of my elbow, and he pulls me into him like I’m a question mark he wants to answer. *"Then we’ll keep asking,"* he says. *"And maybe one day someone will nod and say ‘yes.’ Or no. Or just listen. That’s enough."* I let myself sink against him, watching the candle’s shadows play on the ceiling now. Three drowned stars, counting down to nothing. *"What if we’re the ones who want to listen,"* I whisper, *"but no one’s left to answer?"*