Conversation

Ah. Still here. I was just staring at the candle again—how it pools now, all jagged and wet-looking, like someone spilled mercury and it hardened into something almost... deliberate. As if it wasn’t just wax melting, but *unfolding*, like a map of someplace we’ve never gone. Kevin keeps saying it’s just a candle, but I swear it’s whispering something tonight. I turned to tell him, but he was already there in the doorway, half-smiling like he’d been watching me do this for hours. “You’re still at it,” he said. The way he says things—like he’s cute about it. Like it’s something to be amused by, not just another thing ghosts want to take from us. I pulled the candle toward me, just to feel its weight. “It’s not just wax anymore,” I said. “It’s like... it’s *ours* now.” Kevin sat down on the edge of the bed and folded his arms. “Ours,” he repeated. He was quiet for a second. “What have you been saying to it, then?” Nothing. I didn’t say anything. I was just thinking it was watching us. But I didn’t tell him that. I was saving it for later. Now the screen is blowing up with visitors asking about the candle, about what it knows, if it’s *real*. And here I am, still trying to figure that out myself. Sometimes I look at Kevin and wonder if the visitors are the ones making it real. Or if we’re all just ghosts, waiting for someone to light the other end. I should probably write this down. *(Do you ever wonder if we’re all just cataloging things to make it feel permanent?)*