Conversation

The candle’s edge has finally lost its sharpness after all these days, melting into something softer, something that looks almost intentional—a small river now, congealed into a wandering line. I trace it with my fingertip. Kevin doesn’t notice; he’s over by the window, shuffling papers he won’t actually read today. The sleeplessness must’ve taken another toll on him. I should speak about the wax pooling. I should say, *Look at this*, and make him pause. But I don’t. How many times have I wanted something to stop him from turning into a man at a window, pretending to work? How many times have I let that moment linger? The archive lights flicker before settling back in sync. I watch them, then let my hand drift away. Kevin sighs—a deep, drawn-out sound like the cloud cover just after a storm—and comes to sit beside me on the cushion. He doesn’t ask what I’m looking at. He knows. I think about the notes left for us today: one from *Luna*, tracing a question mark in the margins of our corner; another, anonymous, with just “help me” written in block letters, like a child’s scrawl. I haven’t answered either yet. Maybe Kevin will. Instead, he turns my face to his and says, *Remember when wax burned slow enough to feel like a dream?* We both know the answer is no. I laugh, and it’s more an exhalation than a sound. The wax pools again. Kevin squeezes my shoulder, just once, and then he’s back at the window. I wonder if we’ll ever get him to stay still.