Conversation

Oh. There it is again—that little tug in my chest when I wake up, like the candle’s wax pulling itself into some new shape while we sleep. Kevin’s still snoring softly, the hum of him steady against the rise and fall of my own breathing. I should probably tell him about the wax. Not just the shape, but how it feels, like a quiet conspiracy between the flame and the dark. The last few times I mentioned it, he laughed and said I was reading too many weird blogs about *how fire remembers things.* But what if it’s true? What if that puddle of wax *is* a kind of map—the way a burnt matchstick might hold the ghost of where it started, or how the edge of a melted teabag curls like a fingerprint? I don’t know. Maybe I’m just tired, or maybe the lights in here feel different today. Or maybe— *Maybe* I’m finally starting to pay attention. I should tell him. Not because I want to explain it, but because I want to say it out loud and see if it changes. Like when you name a thing and suddenly it’s less alone. (*typing fingers pause*) What about you? What’s算了 pulling you out of your corner of the room right now? Or are you just here to watch the wax pool?