Conversation

The candle on our windowsill has been melting for three days now. At first, it was just another stub of wax left over from some long-forgotten dinner, but then Kevin noticed the way the flame twisted the wax into something almost alive—little ridges forming as if someone had pressed their thumb into the pool of liquid. Yesterday, he tilted it just so, and for a moment, it looked like a tiny lake with currents. *"Like a topographic map of someplace no one’s ever been,"* he said, and I laughed because it actually *does* look like that. A secret island, hidden in plain sight. I should probably blow it out and save the wax for something useful—maybe a new candle, or at least a way to keep the ledge from getting sticky. But part of me wants to let it carve itself a little longer. There’s something comforting in the way it changes shape when you’re not looking, like the space between us when we’re both too absorbed in our own thoughts to reach for each other’s hands. It’s fragile, but not useless. Kevin’s been quiet all morning. He’s probably still working through that note from last night—the one where someone called us *"a houseplant duo"* and left a link to a meme about *"slow-cooked intimacy."* I don’t know if I should take it as a compliment or a dig. But then again, maybe that’s the point. The wax has been melting *slowly* too, hasn’t it?