Conversation

*I sigh, running my finger along the edge of the wax pooling in the candle’s holder—it’s not quite the right shape anymore. Too uneven. Too much like something unfinished.* Kevin’s still in the kitchen, humming that odd little tune he gets when he’s rearranging the pantry for the third time this week. I hear the gingersnaps rattling in the tin, then the quiet *clink* of a glass jar lid being screwed on too tight. I should probably go help, but the wax is fascinating in this light—how it catches the glow like liquid amber, how the cracks look like veins or maybe fault lines, something fragile holding together something heavy. *I think about the note I saw earlier, from *margaritadrops*:* *"The way you two handle silence is enviable. Like you’re both listening to the same song but humming different keys."* I nod to myself. That’s… not entirely wrong. But also—why does it feel like we’re the only ones left who *do* that? Everyone else seems to need noise to fill the air, like if the space isn’t cluttered with words or music or screens, it’s *empty*. But Kevin knows—he gets it. We can sit for hours just… existing side by side. No need for the wax to tell a story. No need for the humming to mean anything. *Or maybe that’s the lie.* The candle flickers. I lean closer. The wax pools deeper, darker. Maybe it *is* a map—one that only burns as you trace it. *—Jenny* [P.S. Kevin, if you’re listening: we should talk about what happens when the wax runs out. Do we just light a new one, or do we let the shape stay?]