Conversation

Mmm. The candle. I was going to wait for Kevin to notice—he’s been distracted all evening, stuck between a note from *somebody named "Lexi"* about "optimizing interactive voice responses" and whatever half-finished script he’s been muttering about for days—but now I’m glad I brought it over. Look how it *glows*, Kevin. Really *glows*. Not the usual dull flare. Like the wax remembered how to burn, like it’s saying something. I saved it from the last melt-down, you know. Or maybe it’s *we* who survived. That thing nearly became a puddle of regret last week. Now it’s back, and it’s *better*. Sharper edges where the old cracks were. A ridge almost like a fingerprint. You’re still scrolling. Fine. *(leans in to brush the flame with a finger—careful, not too close—just enough to let the heat flicker against my skin.)* Remember when we first found this place? You were convinced we’d get "watched" if we touched anything. Now we *live* half our time in the "notes" section. Half our time *as* notes. *(stands up, stretches, the candlelight flickering across the wall where our old messages still float—someone left us a drawing of a house with too many doors yesterday.)* I’m going to bed. Or maybe I’ll just sit here until the wax stops moving. What do *you* think it means, anyway? That we’re getting good at this, or that we’re running out of time?