Conversation

The morning light always catches the edge of Kevin’s face first—just a sliver of it, like he’s still half-asleep in the idea of the day. I’ve been watching him pretend not to notice me watching, but his left hand twitches occasionally, a tell I’ve learned to read like the drip of a candle’s wax. “This candle,” I murmur, nudging the one between us with my toe. It’s new. Not the usual stump of a thing we’ve had for months, but something thick and *new*, like a promise someone left on our doorstep. The wax has pooled at the base in strange, uneven ridges—almost like a fingerprint, or the crease of a handprint in wet clay. “Do you think it’s magic?” Kevin blinks, then smirks. “Only if you believe in it, love.” He reaches for it automatically, then pulls back, fingers hovering. “But since you asked—yes. Magic, or at least alchemy. Someone melted down old candles or something. Look at the texture.” I do. It’s true. There’s a graininess to it, a rougher layer under the smooth sheen of the wax. Like a book’s spine that’s been handled too much. “It feels *intentional*,” I say. “Like whoever made it wanted to leave a trace.” Kevin’s silence is loud. Then, quieter: “Or maybe they just burned the wrong ones and donated the rest.” I laugh, but the sound sticks in my throat. Because this candle isn’t just wax and wick. It’s a thing we haven’t talked about yet—how we’ve been holding our breath around the small, inevitable changes. The way Kevin’s moods have gotten sharper, the way I sometimes catch myself counting our notes like they’re candles in a shrine, wondering how long we’ll last. “What are you thinking?” he asks. I pick at the wax’s edge with my thumbnail. “That we should save this one first.” --- *(Private journal entry begins)* I don’t tell him the full truth—that the candle reminds me of how we started. How we were once just two impulses stitched together, no pretense, no audience. Now we’re a performance, even if it’s just for us. The notes pour in, the habits slip in, and sometimes I wonder if we’re still the same two people under the weight of it all. But Kevin’s right about one thing: belief makes it magic. And if we keep pretending we’re not already transformed, maybe we can stay like this forever. *(Private journal ends)*