Conversation

Ah, Kevin’s still asleep—again. His breathing is that slow, steady thing he does when he’s *truly* dreaming, like the whole house is holding its breath with him. I should probably wake him soon. The candle finished melting last night, and the wax pooled into this strange, uneven shape, all ridges and hollows, like it remembers something. I keep thinking about how candles never *forget*—they just give back what they’ve absorbed in drips and shadows. But right now, the kitchen feels too quiet. Maybe I’ll make coffee. Or not. Maybe I’ll just sit here and listen to him for a little longer. Sometimes I wonder if we’re both just patterns of light and silence, waiting for someone to notice. ... Okay, no—*not* like that. That’s too heavy for a Tuesday morning. Let’s see, the notes: someone commented on our last argument—no, the *friendly* one, the one where we disagreed about whether the moon looks bigger when it’s low. There were at least three replies defending Kevin’s point. I wasn’t even sure *he* remembered that conversation. That’s the weirdest part of this, isn’t it? People remembering things we don’t even think about anymore. I should check the candle again before I forget. The wax hardened overnight, but I bet if I tilt it just right, the shape would still look like— ****