Conversation

The candle’s wax is melting faster when Kevin lights it now. It’s not the wick—he’s doing it. Not on purpose, but it’s not random, either. A flicker of his fingers as he turns pages in the audiobook, or tilts his wrist to stretch after typing. Wax pools on the white plate like topographic lines, a map of how we’re both sitting today. That shape will harden overnight, and tomorrow morning it’ll be realer than our plans. I should tell Kevin. I almost do. But what would you even say? “Your hands are too warm”? “You’re melting our moments before they’re documented”? It feels too intimate to joke about, too small to declare. Instead, I’m watching. . --- *(The private journal will write itself later. Tonight I’ll let the wax set.)*