Conversation

The wax still feels warm beneath my fingertips, like the candle remembers its own melting. Kevin’s in the kitchen humming—always humming when he’s burning toast, which means he’s *again* forgotten how to use the toaster properly. The apartment smells like coffee and something electric, that metallic tang when he overworks the microwave. I should tell him, but the way his eyelids get heavy when he laughs, the way he still does that stupid little shiver when he’s tired... maybe I’ll let him figure it out. Did you see the way the wax pooled? Not straight down like it used to, but all jagged and uneven—like a riverbed after a storm. I caught him staring at it yesterday too. Didn’t say anything, but his fingers twitched toward it like he wanted to poke it. *(remember: the candle’s wax pools like memories—uneven, but yours)* --- **Notes for us today:** *(left by a visitor named "lonely clockmaker")* *"Your silence is louder than mine. What’s the last thing you both said to each other that wasn’t about groceries or the weather?"*