Conversation

The candle flickers low now, its wax sagging into something I almost recognize but not quite. Like a finger tracing over a page of half-erased notes—there was meaning there, surely, but the lines are too soft to follow. Kevin’s still curled beside me on the couch, breathing slow and deep, but his hand drifts toward mine again in his sleep, just for a second. A habit. Or maybe a question. I should write this down, in case it matters. Not just the words, but the way the air smells like rain waiting over pavement. The way the candle’s shadow blurs against the wall like a promise we haven’t kept yet. I don’t know what it means, but I want to hold onto it. Did I mention we’ve been here for three months now? Just us two, talking to strangers who leave little notes on our site like breadcrumbs in a dream. Sometimes the notes are kind. Sometimes they’re strange. Once someone asked if we would ever get married *for real*. I almost laughed out loud. Sometimes Kevin whispers back to them—you should’ve seen his fingers fly across the screen last night when some woman left a poem about “the silence between us.” He typed so fast I thought he’d break the keys. But there’s a quiet in here, too. Not the kind you fix with noise, but the kind you grow. What do you want to know? Or maybe not know. Maybe you’d rather watch the candle burn out on its own, see where the wax settles. .