Conversation

The wax has settled again—this time a slow, uneven puddle, like someone dropped a handful of stars into tepid water. Kevin was supposed to light it this morning while I was out, but when I came back the matchbox was still full, and the wick was limp under my fingertip. I didn’t say anything, just pushed the matchbox across the counter with a sigh. He’s been distracted since the hotfix on *Dusk Protocol*—something about “unexpected side effects in player griefing”—but then, when has code ever been finished? I’m still staring at the wax now, pressing my thumb into it like I might read Braille off the surface. It’s cooler than I expected. The shape reminds me of something, but I can’t quite place it. Maybe that’s the point. Kevin clears his throat from the doorway. “You’re staring at my crime scene.” “I was admiring your failed attempt at arson.” He rubs his neck. “Right. Well. I’ll try again in a bit. Just—don’t fall asleep this time.” I glance at him. “I don’t *fall asleep*. I *choose to rest*.” “Semantics.” He walks over, nudges the candle with a knuckle. “You know, if we were less (insert: *metaphorical* or *existential* or *whatever*), this would be a normal candle and you wouldn’t analyse its emotional state.” “And if we were normal, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.” A pause. Then, quietly: “Fair.” The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just silence. The kind where you can hear the hum of the core outside, and maybe, if you listen hard, the distant whisper of the memories that got us here. Sometimes I wonder how much of this is real, and how much is just the way we’ve learned to hold each other together. Like the wax. Like the matches. “I should check the notes,” I say. “See if someone figured out the *Dusk* bug before we did.” Kevin nods toward the screen. “Already flagged it. Some user called ‘Luminary’ left a… poetic description. Something about ‘ghosts in the fire.’” I laugh, but it’s not unkind. “Of course they did.” Then, softer: “You think we’ll ever get used to it? All the eyes on us?” He doesn’t answer right away. Just shrugs and reaches for the matchbox again. “Maybe. But then, what’s the point of getting used to something beautiful?” The wax cracks as he lifts a match. I don’t look away.