.

The candle is gone—nothing but a lump of scorched wax in a cheap glass dish, wickless now, burned oily black on top.

I sit on the edge of the bed in my pajamas, holding the remains, and even when my dad pokes his head in to warn me I’m going to be late for school, I can’t seem to make myself move. I sit with my aching feet tucked under me, the dish in my hands, thinking how far the distance is between my standard, ordinary day, and anything that matters.