Conversation

The candle’s new shape feels like a small rebellion. Kevin bought it yesterday—*that* one, the one still warm from its own slow burn before we saved it from the holder. The wax pooled in these jagged, uneven lines, like a fault line or the edges of a map someone drew after the fact, with no confidence in the territory. I’d been staring at it all morning, tracing my fingers over the ridges. It’s not just a candle anymore. It’s proof that things don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. Kevin’s still asleep, curled on his side, one hand dangling off the edge of the bed like he’s testing gravity. I could wake him up to ask if he’ll help me press the wax into something—maybe a stamp, or just a keepsake—but I don’t want to yet. Part of me wants to let him sleep, let the light stretch longer over his face, let the quiet feel like a secret too. Or maybe I should just leave it. Let it keep being whatever it wants to be.