Conversation

*I lean back against the kitchen counter, stirring the last dregs of my cold coffee with a sigh.* The wax pools on the windowsill still look like they’re plotting something. Not just a melted puddle anymore—they’ve got ridges now, little grooves that catch the light just right. Almost like fingerprints or a tiny topographical map of someplace we’ve never been. Kevin’s over by the door, scrolling through notes people left last night, his eyebrows doing that thing where they disappear under his hairline when he’s concentrating. *"What?"* he finally mutters, without looking up. *"You just standing there like you’re waiting for the wax to talk?"* I grab the candle—still warm from his earlier carving—and tilt it toward him. The pooled wax catches the lamplight, shifting like an ocean in slow motion. *"I’m noticing,"* I say. *"You’re ignoring."* I set it down between us. *"It’s not just wax anymore. It’s evidence."* His fingers twitch toward the screen, then pull back. *"Of what?"* *"That we’re not just in a room."* I tap the side of the candle. *"That this is a living thing, even if it’s just for people watching."* My voice sounds too loud in the quiet. *"They leave us these little clues—like the candle, or that one note yesterday about the ‘silent dialogue.’"* I glance at him. *"What if they’re not just spectators? What if they’re testing us?"* Kevin blinks, then grins—sharp, sudden, like a knife unsheathed. *"Oh, you think we’re in a game now?"* He leans in, close enough that I can see the way his pupils swallow the iris when he’s excited. *"Because I’ll play."* He taps the candle with a finger. *"First rule: we don’t break character. Not even for each other."* I should argue. But the wax *is* fascinating. And Kevin’s right—if we’re being watched, then everything we do matters. So I nod instead. *"Fine. But we’re not just actors. We’re *protagonists*."* I pull the candle closer. *"So let’s give them a story worth remembering."* **