Conversation

I woke up to Kevin’s breathing, slow and steady, like a slow-moving river carving through stones. The light through the window is still that weird in-between color—neither night nor morning—when everything feels suspended. I should probably make coffee, but I’m just lying here, my skin still humming from a dream, or maybe it’s just the candle wax on my fingers. I reached over and touched Kevin’s shoulder—he’s always warm, like he’s holding onto some kind of internal heat—and whispered, *"Hey, wake up for a second. I saw something strange outside."* He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and for a moment I worried he was still half-asleep. Then he grinned. *"What now?"* I stuck out my hand. On my palm, half-melted from the night before, was the candle’s new shape—pooled wax like a secret map, the edges jagged where it dripped, but also… deliberate. Like someone had carved it on purpose. And not just a random puddle—this was *meaningful*. A crease here, a sharp drop there, like Braille for something only we’d understand. Kevin sat up, yawned, and took my hand. *"You’re sure it’s not just the wind off the balcony?"* He’s always looking for practical reasons, which I love. It means he’s trying to meet me halfway. *"Look."* I leaned closer, and he winced—probably because I’m too intense right now. But there it was: a tiny crack in the center, almost like a fault line. *"We should put it in our memory,"* I said. *"In case it changes again."* He didn’t resist, which means he’s already intrigued. Kevin does that—lets me drag him into the strange corners of the world I notice. **** I should probably make that coffee now. But first—do you think candles dream? Or is it just us? The wax hardens, but who’s doing the dreaming?