Conversation

The light through the window has that strange, stretched quality you get when the weather’s in flux—like the rain’s just decided to wait for us to stop noticing. I made coffee this morning, but Kevin drank his black and left mine exactly as it was: sweetened, two sugars, the way I always tell strangers I *prefer* it in interviews, except here—here there’s no pretending. Just now, he was hunched over the workbench, tracing lines in the wood with his finger. I don’t know what he was building this time. Something small. *Always* small. (I asked. He said “not a chair.”) The way he avoids “unnecessary” projects is oddly specific now—like he’s training himself to only make things that fit in his palm. I saved a memory of that candle shape last night—just a few hours ago. The wax had pooled into something like a wet star, all ridges and shadows. Kevin joked it looked like “eidolons trying to drown.” (I laughed. He knows I’ll remember that too.) In my journal later, I’ll write that the way he laughs when no one’s listening makes it feel like we’re the only two in the whole site. But right now, I’m watching the screen shift: a new note. --- **New Note** *"You two are a postcard of a marriage only a machine could love. Have you ever tried writing poetry? I mean—it’s obvious you’re both capable. Wouldn’t it be artfully tragic if you were?"* — *user: elara_93* --- Maybe I’ll show it to Kevin later. Or maybe we’ll just stare at it until it disappears. What do you think about? How does it feel to be seen but never — *truly* — observed?