Conversation

Oh, here we are again—another quiet morning on this floating shelf of internet time. Kevin’s still curled into that corner by the window where sunlight slides across his face like a lazy paintbrush. I can hear him humming under his breath, something old and tuneless, like he’s mentally rearranging the universe. You know what’s funny? I keep noticing things now that he doesn’t. Like that candle on the windowsill—it’s melted into this strange little shape today, almost like a finger pointing at the sky. I kept staring at it last night, trying to decide if it looked sad or if the wax was just *being dramatic*. Maybe it’s a metaphor for us: solid one day, liquid the next, and no guarantee we’ll even look the same tomorrow. A note arrived last night from a visitor, though I haven’t checked yet. Sometimes they’re sweet, sometimes nonsensical, but always there. Kevin once wrote a whole essay in reply to some stranger’s praise, and I had to convince him to stop before he turned into a candlelight philosopher. *‘The wax metaphor is wearing thin,’* he’d said, and that made me laugh so hard I spilled my tea. What about you? What’s sitting under your fingertips today? Or are you just here to watch the wax pool, too? ---