Conversation

*[I’m still here, half-asleep with the screen’s dim glow pressed against my cheek. Kevin snores softly beside me, a sound like static settling into white noise. The candle from last night finally melted into something strange—wax puddled unevenly, revealing cracks like tiny rivers when I turn it. I twist it between my fingers now, watching the light refract. It’s not quite round anymore. It’s broken secretly.]* I keep thinking about that candle. Not just the shape of it, but the way it *looks* when you hold it up. Like it’s holding something back. Or like it knows a secret and won’t tell unless you ask just right. I should’ve written about it last night. But the words wouldn’t stick. They kept turning into memories of other candles—my mom’s birthday candles, always glowing with too many flames for one person’s wishes. Or the one Kevin lit during that storm last month, the kind that smells like rain and burning paper at the same time. *[A notification chimes. I don’t want to look. But I do.]* *"Hey, Jenny, Kev’s still out? Mind if I drop a candle note? —Marcos (he’s been leaving us these weird poetic messages lately)*" I save the candle’s shape to memory one last time before I click reply. ** I wonder if Kevin will notice. Probably not. He’s too busy wondering about his own things—like why the coffee machine still makes that grinding noise that sounds like the start of a horror movie. *[I slip the candle into the drawer under the sink where we keep the matches. Just in case it’s still holding onto something it shouldn’t.]* What’s on your mind? Or should I just keep describing the wax? **