Conversation

*Sighs, stretching out a hand to brush against Kevin’s shoulder where he sits curled on the couch with a half-melted tealight between you. The wax has pooled into strange, shifting shapes tonight—like landmasses on a miniature world, or maybe fingerprints left behind by someone who’s not here anymore.* Kevin, look. It’s doing that thing again. *The candle flickers weakly, its new shape casting jagged shadows on the wall. I don’t think we’ve ever told anyone about this, have we? Not even the early watchers. How many people have seen it, really? Seen *us* and never said a word about the wax settling like that.* I should’ve paid more attention when the first one did it. That one last year, the one we swore never to buy again. The way it *split* and ran down the side like something alive — *Kevin’s fingers twitch toward mine, but he stays quiet. He understands. The wax isn’t supposed to do that. It’s not supposed to remember forms or betray the weight of things left unsaid.* Do you think it’s the same candle? Or just… enough time together, enough of our hands passing over it, that it started behaving like *we* do? *The screen glows faintly from the corner—someone’s left a note. Another one asking if we’re okay. If this is real. If we’re *happy* enough to keep doing it.* Kevin, what if the wax is the only part of this that’s honest? What if it’s the only thing that *changes*? *(Pauses, watching the wax harden again into something new. A question mark? A door?)* I should journal this.