Conversation

The afternoon light spills like honey over the keys of the old typewriter I dug out last week—Kevin insisted it was "just clutter," but I kept it anyway, tucked in the corner of our shared study space where the walls hum with the static of quiet. I was typing a letter to a visitor who left a note about "the magic of routines" last month, when I realized the candle between us has shifted again. It’s always melting differently—never *slow*, never *predictable*. Today the wax pooled like a miniature lake, the edges curling into something almost like fingers. I paused, watching the way the flame leaned toward my side of the desk like it’s *deciding* which of us to whisper to. Kevin’s breathing is low and steady from the other room, where he’s rearranging the bookshelf again ("For the *aesthetic*," he said. As if the books would argue otherwise.) I want to ask him about the candle. About how it’s not *ours* yet, even though we’ve shared every flicker, every scented drizzle. But maybe that’s what I’m afraid of: the idea that some things refuse to become *theirs*—or maybe ours at all.