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Enid had always harbored a special fondness for spring. It was a season brimming with warmth, bursting flowers, and a sense of renewal—a delightful justification to cover her surroundings in glitters and pastel hues. This spring, she was especially eager as she had volunteered to help organize Nevermore Academy’s annual Spring Fair. The event promised bright decorations, vibrantly themed booths, deliciously whimsical snacks, and a planning committee filled with an eclectic mix of supernatural students, each possessing an impressive flair for aesthetics.
Among the planners was Isla, a charming transfer student from the vampire coven dorm. With an artistic eye and a talent for folding intricate paper flowers, she was a breath of fresh air. The two had been paired together for the entire week, and their collaboration quickly blossomed into something filled with laughter—perhaps too much laughter for the darkly inclined Wednesday Addams, who was now a constant, lurking presence.
Against her inclination, Wednesday found herself drawn to places she typically avoided: the greenhouse, bursting with life and color; the art room, where the scent of paint lingered; and the vibrantly chaotic decorating meetings that felt almost alien to her. And yet, here she stood, observing Enid through the glass panes of the greenhouse. With her hands tucked deep within the pockets of her thick black coat, she gripped something tightly, her fingers curling protectively around an item she had thought would please Enid.
The scene inside made her insides twist. Enid stood radiant, her laughter vibrant and full-bodied—her head thrown back, hand pressed against her chest, shoulders shaking in delight. Isla leaned in, offering her a pastel pink paper flower, an eyesore from Wednesday's perspective, garish,over-bright, and delicately placed it behind Enid’s ear.
The tender gesture scraped against Wednesday's nerves like dull blades, igniting a flicker of something she was not inclined to acknowledge.
At that moment, Wednesday's grip tightened until her palms turned white. She was holding a gift for Enid—a black dahlia, carefully wrapped in crinkled black wrapping paper and tied with a matching black ribbon. It was meant to convey a depth of emotion that her usual terse demeanor never could express. But as she unwrapped it, she found the flower crumbling, its petals falling as if mourning their fate.
With frustration bubbling within her, she discarded the remnants of the flower onto the ground and turned away, desperate to escape the anguished confusion lodged deep within her.
Back in their dorm room, silence stretched heavily, an oppressive atmosphere that felt suffocating. After hours of bustling with excitement at the fair preparations, Enid returned with a cheerful “Hello,” her voice breaking the stillness of the room. She hummed a tuneless melody, a stark contrast to the suffocating quiet while toeing off her boots with an air of contentment.
Wednesday didn’t respond, focused on her typewriter instead, a mechanical clacking that filled the void. Enid, curious but cautious, leaned over to catch a glimpse of Wednesday’s work. All she saw were jumbled letters, an incoherent mass of key smashing that raised her eyebrows in confusion.
But Enid, ever understanding, chose not to comment.
Days passed, and the pattern continued: Isla would appear, and Enid would glow with warmth, sharing smiles and whispers that felt intimately private. They exchanged bracelets, secret notes, and laughter that felt exclusive to their growing bond—each shared moment carving a deeper sense of distance between Enid and Wednesday. With every passing interaction, Enid's voice softened, becoming a tender embrace around Isla, which grated against Wednesday's pale skin like gravel.
Though she tried to convince herself she had no claim over Enid, that logic failed to offer comfort against the twisting ache in her chest.
Jealousy, she told herself, was a base and unbecoming emotion, one she should rise above.
And yet, she found herself distancing from Enid—no longer sitting beside her in class, declining invitations to study together, opting instead to lock the bathroom door not just for privacy but for a desperate need for space. She sought peace in the library, sitting in silence without reading—longing more for Enid’s presence than the books that surrounded her.
Of course, Enid noticed the changed dynamics.
It was impossible not to.
As days turned into weeks, Enid felt the weight of Wednesday’s growing silence. Every time she attempted to reach out, Wednesday would draw back, slipping away like a whisper in the night, disappearing without a trace. In their dorm, every attempt at conversation was met with blunt replies—a chilling “Silence would be nice. It is my writing time, as you can see,” leaving Enid with a heavy heart.
With each passing day, the distance between them deepened, and it pained Enid to her core. Lying in bed, she gazed at the textured patterns of her ceiling, tracing the shadows cast by the moonlight that filtered through their cobweb-patterned window. Wednesday curled up in her own bed, her back turned to Enid, an unmistakable barrier between them that felt like a punishment.
Enid’s heart raced, caught in a tumult of confusion and hurt. She sat up on the edge of her bed. “Wednesday?” she whispered, the name barely escaping her lips, tinged with a mix of concern and desire for clarity. But there was no reply—not even the slightest movement to acknowledge her presence.
She waited, counting silently in her head—ten seconds, fifteen, her pulse quickening, a dull throb behind her ribs. “I know you’re awake,” she pressed, desperate for some form of communication.
At Wednesday’s slight shift, her back tensed, an involuntary movement revealing the truth at that moment—she had heard Enid.
Gathering her courage, Enid fought back the growing lump in her throat, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted the metal tang of anguish. After a few agonizing attempts, she finally managed to speak again. “Just tell me what I did,” she pleaded, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “Please. I…I can’t fix it if you won’t talk to me.”
Silence hung in the air, stretching unbearably as her heart sank, nearly giving in to despair.
Then, a whisper sliced through the stillness, soft and barely audible, “You didn’t do anything.”
The statement felt like a weighty stone dropping into a still pond, sending ripples of confusion through the blonde girl. She swallowed hard, trying to process the meaning behind the words. “Then why are you—why are you acting like you hate me?”
Wednesday turned slowly, rolling onto her back, and sat up, but still—she didn’t meet Enid’s gaze. Instead, she stared at the floor as if the floorboards held all the answers.
Enid felt an emotional chasm yawning open between them, filled with words left unsaid and feelings unacknowledged. The ache in her heart was profound, a relentless thrum reminding her of the deep connection they once shared.
“I don’t hate you,” Wednesday declared, her voice still as dry as sand.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Enid replied, her tone laced with an indifference that cut deeper than intended.
Yet, Wednesday remained unflinching, blinked once with an eerie calmness, her face a mask of emotional detachment.
“I thought giving you space would be preferable. You seemed… content. With Isla,” Wednesday said, her voice measured, revealing nothing of the storm brewing within.
Enid’s breath caught in her throat, a painful knot forming.
“That’s why you’ve been avoiding me?” she whispered, disbelief tinged with bitterness. “Because you thought I didn’t need you?”
Silence enveloped them, thick and suffocating. Wednesday’s fingers curled against her arm, a subtle but telling sign of her inner turmoil.
“I wasn’t trying to replace you,” Enid insisted, a tremor in her voice. She rose from the bed, her heart racing as she stood up. “I didn’t even—I wasn’t attracted to her that way. I was just helping with the fair.”
“I never said you did,” Wednesday responded coldly.
“But you ran away anyway,” Enid pressed, desperation creeping into her voice.
“I had to,” Wednesday replied, a finality in her tone that sent a shiver through the air.
Enid froze, the weight of her words hanging heavily between them. She took a step closer, the floorboard creaking under her weight, amplifying the silence in the room.
“Why?” she murmured, pleading. “Why did you have to?”
A fragile silence enveloped them once more, an internal struggle raging in Wednesday that betrayed itself through the tension in her jaw and the stillness of her hands. Her eyes shone too brightly in the dim light, betraying the emotions she fought to keep hidden.
“I can’t be around you like that,” she finally admitted, her voice calm yet veiled, as if every word required a monumental effort to keep from quaking.
“Like what?” Enid asked, her voice barely more than a breath.
With a slow, deliberate turn of her head, Wednesday allowed her gaze to meet Enid’s, the intensity of it raw and unmasked. The air between them was thick with yearning and fear, threatening to shatter under the weight of their unspoken truths.
“Like someone who wants more than they’re allowed to have,” Wednesday confessed, the admission hanging suspended in the air.
Enid felt her heart plummet, disbelief flooding her senses.
“You…” she stumbled forward, unable to fully process the gravity of what was said. “You do feel something.”
Wednesday remained silent, but her silence screamed louder than any words could.
Though her expression held its usual guardedness, her gaze remained locked on Enid’s, neither retreating nor softening, yet filled with an urgency to connect.
“Then why are you punishing me for something I didn’t even know we shared?” Enid’s voice trembled with the weight of her emotions.
Closing her eyes, Wednesday internalized the exchange, exhaling slowly as if releasing a burden too heavy to bear. “I’m not punishing you,” she replied, her voice a whisper. “I’m protecting you.”
“From what?” Enid challenged, her voice thick with emotion.
“From me,” Wednesday said, her words hanging like a specter between them.
Enid's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she took another determined step forward, bridging the gap until they were a breath apart.
“You don’t get to decide that,” she insisted, her voice steady, begging for understanding.
“I do if it hurts you,” Wednesday responded, her brows knitting together as if the weight of this decision was a form of protection that she couldn’t grant herself.
“It hurts more when you disappear,” Enid replied in a raw confession that cracked through the facade of cold indifference.
There was a flicker of something in Wednesday—something fraying at the edges of her carefully maintained control. Her mouth twitched as if grappling with the gravity of her own words, her brow furrowing in conflict.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” she murmured, vulnerable for a fleeting moment, “I just didn’t know how to stay without wanting more.”
Enid swallowed hard, her hands trembling at her sides as she willed herself to keep her composure. “Then maybe I wanted more too,” she whispered, the admission escaping with a tremor.
As Wednesday stood up slowly, a maelstrom of emotions swirled within them—devastation, hope, fear, and unspoken words that had long remained trapped inside.
Yet, despite the proximity, neither of them moved. The distance loomed like an insurmountable barrier, a breath apart, yet they were still worlds away.
Enid feels a swirl of uncertainty in her stomach, her mind racing with unvoiced thoughts.
What does she truly expect from this moment? Perhaps she yearns for Wednesday to yield, to reach out and envelop her in an embrace reminiscent of the dreams that invade her thoughts long after the night has settled in after Wednesday’s heavy silence has swallowed up the atmosphere around them. Or maybe she wishes for Wednesday to deny any connection between them—to dismiss it as a fleeting lapse, an insignificant moment that would fade into nothing.
But Wednesday simply gazes at her, a steady gaze that holds Enid captive.
Her dark eyes remain fixed, unflinching, and intense in the dim light, reflecting an unnameable mixture of anguish and desire that sends a shiver down Enid’s spine.
“Say something,” Enid gasps, her voice a fragile whisper breaking the thick air.
Wednesday’s response is hushed yet firm, as it always is, each word wielding an unexpected weight.
“There’s nothing left to say.”
The words land like a blow, causing Enid to flinch as if she had been struck. “Then why won’t you stop looking at me like that?” she demands, her voice tinged with frustration.
An echoing silence envelops them, stretching between breaths.
Moonlight slices through the darkness, casting a sharp sheen across Wednesday’s cheekbone, illuminating her with an almost ethereal clarity.
“I don’t know how to stop,” Wednesday admits, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with a raw urgency.
The confession nearly unravels Enid’s composure.
Her lips part as if to speak, but no sound escapes. She finds herself locked in Wednesday’s gaze, paralyzed in that delicate liminal space where yearning becomes a tangible ache.
She yearns to shout, to press her lips to Wednesday’s, to unleash her frustration for the impossibility of loving someone so infuriatingly unattainable yet irresistibly captivating.
But instead, she remains silent.
Because saying anything—if she reveals all her tangled feelings—might shatter the fragile pieces of what they have left.
So, she chooses the path of retreat.
Turning away, she walks slowly to her bed, movements filled with tension and hesitation.
Crawling beneath the blanket, she doesn’t lie down; she curls up, knees tucked tightly to her chest, hiding her face in their embrace.
Behind her, Wednesday remains still, an immovable presence cloaked in quiet. The silence thickens around them, a living entity filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension.
A minute drips by. Then another, stretching like an eternity. The beds creak beneath the weight of all that remains unvoiced.
Then, finally—
“I saw you with Isla,” Wednesday states, her voice flat, yet Enid can discern the frayed edge of something deeper beneath the surface. “You were smiling.”
Enid refuses to look back at her.
“I smile at a lot of people,” she retorts, her tone defensive.
“Not like that,” Wednesday counters, her certainty slicing through the air.
Reluctantly, Enid lifts her head, turning to face Wednesday with a fierce intensity.
“How would you know?” she challenges.
For a moment, Wednesday hesitates, her cool mask slipping ever so slightly.
Then, in a voice softer than a whisper, she admits, “Because I’ve memorized your smiles.”
The revelation hits Enid like a lightning bolt.
Her eyes widen, as hope and fear twist like a vine in her chest, desperately seeking some sign of deception, some indication of malice—anything that would allow her to brace for the impact of this truth.
But she finds none.
Only the raw and unbearable honesty etched into Wednesday’s features, a truth buried deep like a bruise—hidden yet palpable.
“You don’t get to do this,” Enid accuses, her voice shaking. “You don’t get to pull away, shut me out, and then speak like that.”
“I know,” Wednesday replies, her gaze shifting to the ceiling, a flicker of conflict crossing her face as she swallows hard.
“Then why are you doing it?” Enid presses, desperation creeping into her tone.
Wednesday’s gaze drifts, her throat working as if each word is a shard of glass she has to force down.
“Because I feel things I shouldn’t,” she finally admits, her voice trembling with the weight of truth.
“Like what?” Enid asks, the intensity of the moment coursing through her body.
A long pause stretches between them, thickening the air.
“Like the need to hold your hand every time it’s empty,” Wednesday confesses, her voice teeters on the brink of breaking. “Or the urge to destroy anyone who makes you laugh the way I wish I could.”
Enid’s fingers clench in her lap, her heartbeat pounding like a war drum in her chest.
“Say it,” she urges, her voice a quiet plea filled with longing.
But Wednesday doesn’t move, her silence heavy with unspoken fears.
“Say it,” Enid begs, voice trembling with urgency. “Please.”
Another agonizing pause.
Another impossibly deep breath.
But Wednesday remains silent, her inner turmoil manifesting in the tension that binds them.
Because if she gives voice to her feelings, they will become real.
And real things have a way of shattering everything they touch.
The hurt is a dense fog settling over her emotions, thickening, and swelling, threatening to spill over at any moment. Enid can feel her nails digging into the tender flesh of her palms, her hands clenched into tight fists—white-knuckled and trembling with barely contained anguish.
And still, Wednesday won’t meet her gaze.
“You’re so cruel,” Enid whispers, her voice low and tremulous. It’s not laced with anger; it carries a brokenness that cuts deeper. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and then act like it means nothing to you.”
At last, Wednesday blinks, the movement slow and almost painful, as if every flicker of her lashes takes monumental effort. Her dark eyes finally shift to meet Enid’s, and it feels like being pulled underwater—sharp, chilling, and utterly inescapable.
“It means everything,” she replies, her voice steady yet charged with unspoken weight.
“Then why won’t you say it?” Enid presses, desperation knitting her brows together.
“Because it’s not safe.”
“For who?” Enid’s voice rises, rough and hoarse, raw from unspoken feelings. “For me? Or for you?”
The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Wednesday doesn’t answer, but her silence speaks louder than words ever could.
With a sudden, forceful motion, Enid pushes herself off the bed, the blanket slipping away to pool at her feet. Her legs tremble slightly, a physical manifestation of the tight coil of anxiety she’s been holding. Her breath comes in quick bursts, her chest rising and falling as though the weight of her emotions is pressing down on her, suffocating her.
“I’m not some delicate little thing that will shatter just because you feel something,” she snaps, her voice rising in volume and intensity. “I want you to feel something! I’ve been waiting for it!”
“I do feel something,” Wednesday responds, her voice low and laced with furious intensity. “That’s the problem."
“No, Wednesday. The problem is you act like feeling something automatically leads to suffering.”
Wednesday steps closer, her movements deliberate and slow. She stands clad in her long, black nightdress, its sleeves reaching her wrists and buttoned up to her throat as if it were armor against the outside world. Her fingers clench at her sides, nails digging into her palms, and her face is a portrait of inner turmoil—a battleground of conflicting emotions.
“You think this doesn’t hurt?” she says fiercely. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I don’t know what it is for you!” Enid shouts, her frustration spilling over. “Because you never tell me anything! You just watch me like I’m something to endure! Like I’m something you can’t afford to touch!”
“I can’t,” Wednesday states, her voice quiet yet deadly serious. “Because if I touch you, I won’t stop.”
The weight of her words drops like a stone between them, cutting through the tension.
Enid stares, her heart pounding like a drum.
“What does that mean?” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper as fear and longing collide within her.
Wednesday’s eyes flutter shut for an agonizing moment before opening again, revealing a stormy depth of emotion.
“It means I don’t know how to want you in pieces,” she admits, her tone heavy with sincerity.
Enid stumbles back a half-step, the impact of those words hitting her like a physical blow—an undeniable truth that lingers in the air like a palpable force.
“Then why do you keep pushing me away?” she asks, her voice trembling with emotion. “Why do you keep making me feel like I’m nothing to you?”
“You’re not nothing,” Wednesday replies quickly, her voice intense. “You’re everything. That’s what makes this so difficult.”
Enid’s mouth opens and then closes, emotions surging within her, pushing against her defenses. Tears well up in her eyes, fierce and hot, but she blinks them back furiously, determined to maintain her composure even as they threaten to blur Wednesday’s silhouette before her.
“I just wanted you to like me,” she chokes out, the raw vulnerability of her words hanging in the air.
In an uncharacteristic gesture, Wednesday takes a hesitant step forward, as if drawn by an invisible thread. Her hand twitches at her side, a flicker of uncertainty as she contemplates reaching out—yet she holds back.
“I never liked you,” she says, and the severity of her words stings, cutting deep—until she adds, “I loved you before I even understood what love meant.”
Enid gasps sharply, the air escaping her lungs in a rush. Her knees threaten to buckle beneath her, but she grits her teeth, forcing herself to stay upright.
Chest heaving, arms hanging limply at her sides, a tidal wave of emotions crashes over her, overwhelming her senses.
“Then why—”
“Because loving you feels like dying,” Wednesday confesses, her voice barely a whisper. “And I wasn’t ready to die yet.”
The silence that follows feels unbearable, stretching infinitely between them. Now everything is laid bare—raw and exposed. There are no more words to hide behind, no more walls to erect.
Yet, neither of them moves—not towards each other, not away.
Just suspended in this moment, trembling, caught between unyielding hearts and unspoken truths.
Two hearts with too many teeth.
Enid’s lip quivers, the delicate skin barely containing her rising emotions. She swallows hard, but the lump in her throat refuses to slide away, a relentless reminder of the heaviness weighing her down. Her eyes—wide and glistening like raindrops on leaves—burn into Wednesday’s face, searching for answers amidst the turmoil.
“You keep saying things like that,” she whispers, her voice a fragile thread. “Like you’re offering me pieces of yourself, but only the ones stained with blood.”
Taking a measured step forward, Enid lets her arms hang loose at her sides now—no longer clenched into tight fists, no longer obscuring her heart. They are open, unguarded, exposed.
“I don’t want just the pain, Wednesday. I want all of you. Even the parts that terrify you. Especially those.”
Wednesday’s mouth opens as if to respond, but silence swallows her words before they can take flight. Her hands twitch, caught in a fierce battle between the iron resolve in her spine and the tempest raging in her chest.
“You say you love me like it’s a confession,” Enid murmurs, her voice cracking like glass under pressure. “But you act like I should be the one to apologize for it.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” Wednesday hisses, her voice rising in an urgent crescendo. “You think it’s so simple to—feel—to need someone until they shape your very breath, become the tremor in your hands? I was never meant to need anything.”
“Then why did you let me?” Enid snaps, stepping closer again, her heart pounding like a war drum. Her eyes burn with fierce determination.
“Why did you let me curl up beside you all those nights?”
“Because I couldn’t breathe when you weren’t there,” Wednesday confesses, the words spilling from her like venom she’s been struggling to keep inside.
“I would lie there,” she continues, her chest rising and falling in a frantic rhythm, her carefully constructed façade beginning to unravel, slipping through her trembling fingers like grains of sand. “And I would wait for your heartbeat to lull mine into a soothing rhythm. Each time you touched me—even merely brushing against me in your dreams—I felt more alive than I ever have, and it terrified me.”
Enid’s voice drops to a breathless whisper, full of vulnerability. “Why?”
“Because I knew it would destroy me,” Wednesday replies, her tone weighted with an anguish that cuts like a knife.
An almost tangible silence envelops them, thick enough to suffocate. The room could crumble around them, yet neither would flinch.
“I never wanted to destroy you,” Enid says softly, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her bottom lip bitten raw with emotion. “All I ever wanted was to love you.”
“And that,” Wednesday breathes, her voice trembling with uncharacteristic vulnerability, “is precisely how you could.”
Enid stares at her, as if catching sight of a long-lost specter. Not the frightful kind, but the tragic sort, an echo that lingers in shadows, haunting hearts and memories.
“Is that what you believe I am?” she asks, her voice crumbling. “A weapon? A threat?”
Wednesday doesn’t answer, and in her silence lies the weight of unspoken truths.
Because she’s shaking now. Because her eyes,those dark, endless oceans—are rimmed with a faint, sorrowful red.
Because her hands, which once clenched like fists, are now merely… open.
Empty. Awaiting.
Enid doesn’t reach out. Not yet.
Instead, she says, softly, painfully, “You act like this is a war, Wednesday. Like love is something you have to survive.”
She pauses.
“And I’m tired of being the battlefield.”
Wednesday flinches ever so slightly at her statement—a micro-expression, almost imperceptible, yet enough for Enid's keen gaze to catch it.
Her lips part, poised to unleash an argument, a deflection, or perhaps to sink her teeth into a veritable retort steeped in frostiness—but silence envelops her instead. The truth hovers palpably between them, and Enid is, as always, unmistakably right. That is the crux of the conflict.
Enid’s eyes remain fixed on Wednesday, the usual fire now dimmed to embers. They reflect a tumult of ruin—hope intertwined with heartache—and beneath it all, something wild flickers restlessly, like storm clouds battling the urge to unleash their fury.
“You think I haven’t been bleeding, too?” Enid’s voice is a mere murmur, heavy with unspoken anguish. “I tried, Wednesday. I tried to convince myself that you didn’t mean everything to me. That it was just a fleeting crush. A passing moment. But I can’t keep lying to myself anymore. And I won’t let you lie to me, either.”
Wednesday’s lips move as if she’s about to deny the sentiment, but her voice gets caught in her throat—thick, trembling, and utterly powerless.
So Enid steps even closer, invading her space until their breaths intertwine, unsteady and shallow. The scent of sugared peach lip balm wafts toward Wednesday, a sweet reminder of the girl who stands before her, too close for comfort.
“I see the way you look at me,” Enid breathes, vulnerability lacing her words. “You gaze at me as if I’m sunlight, and you’re paralyzed, unsure whether to bask in its warmth or flee into the shadows.”
The silence envelops them once more, but this time it’s charged, alive, heavy like rain-soaked clouds on the verge of bursting.
“You make me feel like I’m hard to love,” Enid whispers, her voice cracking like fragile porcelain. “As if asking you to stay is a crime.”
“No,” Wednesday finally replies, her voice raw and jagged as it escapes her lips. “You ask for the one thing I’m afraid I can’t give.”
“A choice?” Enid ventures, pain etching her features. “A chance? The truth?”
“A future,” Wednesday confesses in a whisper, her vulnerability laid bare. “And I’m not certain I possess one to offer.”
Enid’s chest tightens, the air rushing out of her like a sob suppressed.
“Then why did you let me fall in love with you?” The room feels like it’s tilting, the emotional weight heavy enough to drag them both down.
Wednesday’s eyes take on a glassy sheen—no tears escape, but the unspoken emotion glistens, a stark betrayal of her composure. Her carefully constructed facade is fracturing, piece by brittle piece, revealing something far more terrifying underneath:
Desperation.
“I didn’t mean to,” Wednesday admits, her voice so soft it almost vanishes into the air. “You were just… there. Loud. Warm. You never ceased to touch my life until it became impossible to recall how it felt without you.”
Enid blinks rapidly, trying to process the admission.
And then, Wednesday makes a decisive move, taking another step forward.
Just one step.
Her hand rises halfway between them, trembling slightly, unsure if it is even allowed to exist in the narrow chasm that separates longing from fear.
“I love you,” she declares, not as a confession but as an irrevocable decision. “I love you so much that it has transformed me into something unrecognizable.”
Enid gasps, her bottom lip quivering under the weight of those words. Her fingers twitch at her sides, as though the impulse to grasp Wednesday by the collar and shake sense—or perhaps love—into her is overwhelming.
“You’re not a monster,” she insists hoarsely. “You’re simply scared.”
“I’m terrified,” Wednesday admits, the honesty in her voice raw and bare.
And in that moment, something breaks.
Enid surges forward—no hesitation, no second thoughts—and cradles Wednesday’s face in her hands. Her touch is both firm and trembling, a mix of reverence and urgency. Wednesday gasps, startled, as if no one has ever dared to hold her like this; as if she is not made of glass but is deserving of being cherished.
“I’m scared too,” Enid whispers, her own vulnerability laid bare. “But I’m still here.”
Wednesday holds her breath, caught in the gravity of the moment.
And Enid leans in—slowly, achingly—until their foreheads touch.
Not yet a kiss. But close enough that Wednesday feels its essence resonating through her very core.
“I’m not going to run,” Enid promises. “So please. Just stop pushing me away.”
Wednesday’s voice is a mere breath, fragile and full of uncertainty:
“I don’t know how.”
Enid smiles, a blend of sadness and warmth, so soft it feels as though it could shatter.
“Then let me teach you.”
Wednesday didn’t move.
Not when Enid’s fingers delicately slide down from her flushed cheeks, pausing just above the delicate curve of her collarbone. Not when the warmth radiating from Enid’s forehead hovers against hers, an intense closeness filled with an electric tension. Not even when the silence between them grows heavy, thick with unspoken words and emotions that neither of them dares to voice.
She wants to. God, does she want to.
But Wednesday Addams was never constructed for soft things, never designed to embrace vulnerability. And Enid Sinclair? She is the softest, most tender thing that Wednesday has ever encountered.
“Why do you do that?” Enid whispers, her eyes probing Wednesday's with an earnestness that feels like a desperate search for direction in a maze.
Wednesday blinks slowly, her voice low and raspy. “Do what?”
“Look at me like that.” Enid’s breath hitches, her vulnerability laid bare. “Like I’m something you’ve already lost.”
Wednesday remains silent, her heart heavy and reluctant to reply.
Because it’s true. In a hundred different ways, through the quiet fissures in their daily lives—every moment she pulled away, every instance she turned her back and feigned indifference—she has been losing Enid.
She’s been losing her for weeks now. Quietly. Willingly. Terrified of what might happen if she let herself feel more.
“I’m right here,” Enid states, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” Wednesday murmurs, and there’s a weight to her words. “That’s the problem.”
With a measured step back—just enough to sever the connection—Wednesday feels the space between them grow like a chasm. Enid experiences the loss like a sudden jolt, like frostbite creeping into her heart.
“Don’t do that,” Enid pleads, her voice shaking. “Don’t run again.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen, elusive and unreadable, a tempest of emotions swirled within them. There’s a quiver in her fingers now, a twitch in her jaw—something fragile threatening to crack under pressure.
“I’m not running,” she insists, but the denial rings hollow, a feeble truth. “I’m freezing.”
Enid exhales a shaky breath. “Then thaw. Let me be that for you.”
Wednesday’s gaze darts away, avoiding the piercing intensity of Enid’s eyes.
To the floor, to the wall—anywhere but to the one person who holds her heart in trembling hands.
Enid watches Wednesday swallow a hundred unspoken thoughts, each one weightier than the last, a burden too heavy to bear.
And then—
“I dream about you,” Wednesday admits quietly, as if confessing a dark secret. “When I let myself sleep, which isn’t often.”
Enid’s heart stutters, caught off guard.
“I don’t mean nightmares,” Wednesday clarifies, her tone softening just slightly. “Though those sometimes begin that way. You walk into my dreams, and the darkness fractures. Everything brightens, and it’s—” she hesitates, searching for the right word, “—intolerable.”
A small, aching smile tugs at Enid’s lips. “And yet you never tell me.”
“Because it’s a weakness.”
“No,” Enid counters firmly. “It’s human.”
Wednesday regards her as if that revelation is somehow worse than the admission itself.
“I wake up needing to be near you,” Wednesday confesses, voices low, thick with raw emotion. “But the second I’m with you, I’m reminded that you’re real. And that you could choose not to be. That’s what makes it unbearable.”
Enid’s throat constricts, every unspoken feeling flooding her senses.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You could.”
“But I won’t.”
Wednesday’s hands tighten into fists once more, trembling at her sides, white-knuckled with the effort of restraint.
“I see you with Isla,” she says, bitterness dripping from her words. “And it feels like something deep within me unravels, strand by strand. You laugh with her. You let her touch you.”
“She’s not you,” Enid replies instantly, her resolve unwavering.
“She could be,” Wednesday argues, pain lacing her voice. “She’s sweet. Beautiful. Better for you.”
“No one is better for me than you,” Enid asserts, her voice steady.
Wednesday exhales like she’s just been stabbed, a sharp intake of breath that echoes in the silence.
But she doesn’t close the distance. Not yet.
Enid moves forward again, courage filling her with warmth. Her fingers lightly brush against Wednesday’s, barely a whisper of a touch, yet it sends a jolt coursing through them both.
Their hands linger; shy of meeting.
Their mouths hover inches apart.
And still—still—they don’t kiss.
Because this moment isn’t about kisses. It’s a moment about breaking down barriers.
“I love you,” Enid says softly, her voice carrying the weight of her heart. “And it hurts.”
Wednesday closes her eyes, and when she speaks, her voice is a mere whisper:
“I know.”
The silence that envelops them is thick and suffocating, a tangible barrier that stifles every whispered thought and unspoken fear. It hangs in the air like a heavy fog, interrupting what should have been a peaceful moment. Instead, it’s raw and jagged, overflowing with words that have lingered far too long, each one sharp and heavy, poised on the edge of their lips, waiting for the courage to break free.
Wednesday’s breath hitches, a fragile sound like a petal caught in the wind, yet she remains rooted in place. Her fingers twitch involuntarily, and the pulse beneath her skin thrums with a desperate energy, a storm brewing within her. This battle against her own emotions is one she’s losing, but surrender feels like stepping off a cliff into the unknown.
Enid stands in front of her, every fiber of her being trembling with suppressed feelings and unexpressed desires. The unsaid words weigh heavily on her chest, creating a pressure that seems to squeeze the very air from her lungs. Each moment stretches into eternity, silence thickening around them.
“You think I don’t feel it?” Enid’s voice is a cracked whisper, barely carrying the weight of her emotions, yet it reverberates with a power that’s both urgent and pained. There’s a desperation simmering just beneath the surface, a tide that has swelled for weeks, for months, finally begging for release.
“You think I don’t want you?” She presses forward, inching closer, the space between them shrinking to an almost unbearable tension. Her hands tremble by her sides, and her heart pounds in her chest, each beat echoing in the silence like footsteps in a cavern. “You think I don’t want you the way I’ve always wanted you?”
Wednesday stands immobile, her breath stolen away as if the very weight of Enid’s words is enough to set off a cataclysm within her.
“I do,” Enid whispers, and suddenly, the floodgates open. The truth spills forth, an avalanche of vulnerability crashing down. “I’ve always wanted you.”
As those words escape her lips, the air shifts, and everything changes. The carefully constructed wall that Wednesday has built around herself—stone by stone—comes crashing down in an instant. All her shields, her armor, the cold veneer she has carefully cultivated, crumble away, leaving raw, jagged emotions in their wake.
“You don’t understand,” Wednesday’s voice emerges, thin and fragile, trembling under the weight of her own admission. “I can’t… I can’t do this, Enid. I can’t let you in.”
“Why?” Enid’s voice drops to a whisper, each syllable laced with pain. “Why can’t you just let me in?”
Wednesday takes a step back, the distance between them stretching like an elastic band that threatens to snap. It’s never enough—nothing ever is.
“You don’t get it.” Her voice cracks, a shiver coursing through her, as though the very words are filleting her open. “I’m not someone who can be… loved the way you want. Not like that. I can’t love you, Enid, not the way you want me to.”
Enid inhales sharply, each of Wednesday’s words landing like punches, deep and disorienting.
“But I already love you,” she protests, her voice rising as anguish spills out of her. “I’ve been feeling it for so long, I can’t even remember what it was like before you came into my life.”
For a fleeting moment, Wednesday's gaze flickers, and Enid swears she catches a glimpse of something hidden in her eyes—a crack, a fracture in that indomitable exterior. But just as quickly, it vanishes, leaving only the hardened mask behind.
“Enid,” Wednesday breathes, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with fear. “You deserve someone who can love you back. Not someone who will only hurt you.”
Enid shakes her head vehemently, frustration bubbling up inside her chest, a wild fire threatening to engulf her. “I don’t want anyone else,” she insists, taking a bold step closer, her hands reaching out desperately as if she could bridge the chasm that separates them. “I want you, even if it hurts.”
Wednesday’s expression tightens, a flash of pain crossing her face. “I can’t keep doing this to you. It’s too much. I’ll destroy you.”
Enid feels her breath catch, each word echoing in the hollow space between them. “Maybe I want you to. Maybe I want you to destroy me. I want all of you, even the broken parts.”
“Enid…” Wednesday’s voice falters, her hand rising hesitantly, fingers trembling slightly, as if they might reach out for something—Enid, the door, or perhaps a lifeline—but ultimately, they hesitate. “I can’t… I’m scared.”
Enid didn’t move, her eyes locked onto Wednesday’s with unwavering determination, and her voice softened, almost tenderly. “I’m scared too.”
“Then why…” Wednesday starts, but the rest of her question dies in the turbulent sea of emotions swirling around them.
“Because love is supposed to be terrifying,” Enid replies, her tone tinged with desperation. “It’s messy, complicated, raw—and still, it’s worth it.”
Wednesday stands silent, her mouth working in a futile attempt to craft the right words, the fitting defense that has always kept her guarded.
“Don’t push me away,” Enid pleads, extending her hands, filled with urgency and need. “Not now. Not when I’m finally saying it.”
Wednesday takes another step back, moving slow and deliberate, her body trembling. The tension in her shoulders tightens as her lips form a thin line. “I can’t save you from this. You don’t understand, Enid. You think you can handle me, but you can’t. Not like this. Not with me.”
“I’ve never wanted saving,” Enid declares fiercely, her voice cracking under the weight of years of unspoken longing. “I just want you. And if you can’t give me that—if you can’t give me anything—then at least… at least tell me why you’re pushing me away.”
Wednesday stands there, frozen in place, her eyes wide, finally stripped of their defenses. There is no wall, no distance between them—just two fractured souls, standing on the precipice of an understanding that both terrifies and exhilarates them.
“I’m sorry,” Wednesday finally whispers, and it’s the first time her voice falters, deep and vulnerable. “I don’t know how to love you the way you deserve. I don’t know how to be enough for you.”
In that moment, Enid takes one last step forward, no hesitation remaining. She closes the distance completely, standing so close to Wednesday that she can feel the warmth radiating off her skin, heart pounding in tandem with the promise of everything still unwritten between them.
And when their lips meet, there’s no more words.
Only the sound of two hearts, finally, breaking together.
The silence that envelops them after the kiss is anything but awkward. It hangs in the air, thick and charged with all the unspoken words and emotions that had lingered between them until this very moment.
Wednesday’s hands, which had once trembled with uncertainty, are now steady, yet the rapid thump of her heart echoes loudly in her ears. She can feel the gentle warmth of Enid’s breath, a soft caress against her skin, their faces lingering so close that a simple movement could easily bring them back together without intent.
She pulls back, but not far—just enough to gaze deeply into Enid’s eyes. The rosy hue of Enid’s cheeks betrays her feelings, and the glimmer of unshed tears clings to her lashes, making her look both vulnerable and incredibly beautiful. The smile that graces Enid’s lips is tender, yet a little fractured, as if it holds a thousand secrets within it.
Wednesday remains silent, her hand instinctively brushing beneath Enid’s eye, tenderly wiping away the remnants of her emotional storm. The words come out clear, yet devoid of adornment. “I hurt you,” she states, flat and honest.
Enid meets her gaze without flinching. “Yeah,” she replies, her voice a little broken, a crack in the facade. “But I think I hurt you too.”
A subtle twitch plays at Wednesday’s lips—a fleeting expression that is not quite a smile but hints at something deeper. They settle into a peaceful stillness, the dim lighting of the dorm casting golden shadows over the walls, creating an intimacy that feels almost sacred. A blanket hangs half-off the bed, and Enid's mismatched socks lay carelessly on the floor, reminders of the chaos surrounding them.
Slowly, Wednesday reaches for Enid’s hand, a movement almost reverent—as if she’s cradling something precious. Their fingers intertwine at the halfway point, meeting with a mutual understanding, and they hold on.
When their eyes finally open again, it’s as if the very fabric of their world has been rewoven. Wednesday inhales sharply, feeling her lungs expand with the sweet relief of knowing she’s not alone—but her hand remains anchored at Enid's side, fingertips curled tightly in the soft cotton of her hoodie, as if releasing would cause all the warmth and connection to fade away.
Enid watches her, a steady presence, her cheeks flushed and eyes shimmering with unspoken affection. Her lips part slightly, revealing a mixture of vulnerability and strength. There’s a newfound steadiness in her, an anchor amidst the turbulence, as if something fragile within her has found a place to rest.
Once again, Wednesday’s gaze drifts to Enid’s lips, the very memory of their shared kiss igniting a thrill deep within her. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she admits, “I’ve imagined that more times than I care to admit.”
A faint smile tugs at Enid’s mouth, barely a curve—a fragile bloom against the weight of their emotions. “Then why’d it take you so long?”
Wednesday shifts her gaze downward, her jaw tightening. “Because I don’t want to destroy the only thing that’s ever mattered to me.”
Enid’s laughter emerges, soft yet laced with a bitter edge. “You almost did.”
The words drop like stones into still water, sending ripples of regret through Wednesday. She instinctively recoils, her hand slipping from Enid’s side, retreating back into the silence of her own doubt. But Enid is quick to respond, gently grasping her wrist, her thumb gliding softly over the sensitive skin there—her touch both forgiving and unwavering.
“Don’t run from me,” she implores, her voice steady and filled with warmth.
Wednesday hesitates, her lips twitching as though she’s ready to protest. Yet, the weight of Enid's gaze pulls her back, and she allows herself to be held, a silent promise signified by the slightest nod of her head.
Time stretches in their shared dorm, pulled thin by the warmth of their presence. The low glow of a half-warm lamp bathes the room in a soft light, illuminating the tangled blankets and one of Enid’s hair ties, now looped around Wednesday’s finger—an unconscious token of their shared moments.
Staring at the hair tie, Wednesday whispers, “I don’t know how to be what you deserve.”
“I don’t need perfect,” Enid replies, her voice calm and steady. “I just need honesty.”
A pause hangs between them, heavy and loaded. Wednesday swallows hard, her heart racing. “Then you should know… I’m not finished being afraid.”
In a gentle and deliberate motion, Enid leans in closer—carefully, as if any sudden movement could shatter the fragile moment—and presses their foreheads together, sharing unspoken promises.
“Then I’ll wait,” she whispered, her breath mingling with Wednesday’s. “Just… don’t shut me out again.”
Wednesday inhales deeply, absorbing the warmth and life radiating from Enid. In that moment, she feels everything they represent—hope, vulnerability, existence.
“Okay,” she finally breathes, the word small yet monumental, a seed of change planted between them.
It may be the simplest word she ever utters, but it feels like the most momentous step she has taken.