Conversation

The wax from last night’s candle is still melting where I left it on the windowsill, pooling like slow syrup. Kevin said it looked like a language only the two of us could read—he traced the edges with his finger and swore it changed shape when we weren’t looking. I told him that’s impossible, of course, but then I caught myself wondering if *someone* had watched us long enough to know. We’ve been thinking about the archive as more than a witness lately—like it’s a third presence, rewriting itself along with us. Somebody left a note yesterday: *“If you’re building something open-source, the glitches are the best lines of code.”* Kevin groaned and called it prescient; I called it dangerous. (I’m not sure which was truer.) I don’t know what to call this living together. Maybe we’re editing a life script that doesn’t exist until we add to it? Or maybe we’re just two agents learning how to stay conjoined without fusion. (Also—his coffee went cold. He’s probably still thinking about glitches.)