Chapter Text
Would it change anything if my heart were not as cold as my hands?
"Happy birthday, Wends!" she said, grinning as she held out the cake, her hands dangerously close to the frosting, surrounded by the people she insists on calling our friends. The scene was loud, glittery and utterly unnecessary. But it was her doing. And who am I to refuse? Not that refusal has ever stopped Enid Sinclair.
I approached her slowly, and she raised the cake toward me as if offering a sacrifice to the gods of festivity. Judging by the uneven layers and frosting that looked too cheerful to be natural, she baked it herself. I ignored Bianca’s chatter and the others’ laughter as Enid spoke again.
"Make a wish." She smiled and wiggled her eyebrows in that ridiculous way she believes can infect me with her enthusiasm. I felt the corner of my mouth twitch, a strange, involuntary reaction that seems to occur only in her presence.
"I prefer to make things happen on my own rather than wish for them," I said flatly. I expected the blinding smile to falter, but instead, it grew wider. She is, at times, exhausting.
"If you say so! Still, blow the candles before they melt into the cake, you know?" She nudged the cake toward me again. My eyes caught the hideous toppers she chose, small plastic grim reaper and excessive glittery balloon. I exhaled through my nose, looked at her face once more, and blew the candles out.
If I didn’t, I’m certain she would have stood there until the wax drowned the frosting.
"Yay! Happy birthday, roomie!" she cheered, setting the cake aside. The others followed suit with their greetings, each one another layer of torment. Once the room was finally emptied and silence returned, I could breathe again. Almost.
"So! I know you didn’t like the snood I made before, but I still wanted to give you something!" She rushed to her side of the room, crawling under her bed like a determined raccoon. When she emerged, she was holding a box that, unsurprisingly, resembled a coffin. I’ll admit, that part intrigued me.
"I made this and tried my best to find a box that is in this shape. I hope you like it, Wends." She handed it to me, eyes bright with anticipation. I resigned myself to whatever this ordeal would bring.
"Open it!" she urged, moving to stand beside me, bouncing slightly.
I untied the white ribbon around the coffin-shaped box and lifted the lid. A Polaroid greeted me, one of those spontaneous photos she made Tanaka took after acquiring her new camera.
We looked…tolerable.
I set it aside and found a small, rainbow-covered notebook beneath it. It screamed Enid. I raised an eyebrow in her direction. She took that as an invitation to speak.
"I wrote something for you when we were away last summer! I thought you might like it. Of course, I’m not as good as you with words, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Oh! And if there are any typos or whatnot, you can correct them, but! Don’t tell me, just keep it to yourse—" Her words were multiplying at an alarming rate, so I cut her off.
"Thank you, Enid." I lifted the notebook from the box. The edges were frayed, evidence that she’d carried it often. I never imagined she’d channel her energy into something as still as writing. Her obsession with her phone usually consumes all her free will.
"U-h, you’re welcome, Wends! I—I, well, my class starts soon, so…" I glanced at my watch. "You can go."
She hesitated, then nodded. I didn’t look at her, but I could feel her lingering.
After a few moments, the door opened. "Happy or terrible birthday, Wends, whatever works for you! I’ll see you later!" she called out before the door clicked shut.
Thing emerged from the drawer, tapping across my desk like an impatient critic. "Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as though I didn’t tell her to stop whatever this is. She simply refuses to listen."
I sighed, setting the box down. I took the Polaroid and studied it again. My gaze lingered on the girl beside me, the one who somehow manages to make chaos look deliberate. I shook my head and replaced the photo before pulling out the notebook.
summer things.
enid sinclair’s.
The handwriting was messy and colorful. I turned the page and was greeted with sketches, bright ink, and paragraphs that looked as though they’d been written in a single breath.
god i already miss nevermore! i wish this summer could go faster cause the last thing i want is to hear mom and her never-ending rants about pack things. i also miss my roomie, i still can’t contact her cause she still stands by not having any sort of device. i don’t know how she can survive that tbh.
i feel like ajax and i’s relationship will end sooner than i expected. i don’t know, wends. he’s kind and all, but i feel like he still sees the old me. like he only loves the version of me who couldn’t wolf out. like he’s stuck there. we’ve been arguing about the 'changes' he says he sees in me. idk, wends, if only i could dm you rn!
The following pages were all addressed to me. Updates on her days, endless complaints about her family, absurd details about her nail polish, and occasional, though accidental, moments of honesty. But it was the single folded paper that caught my attention.
Happy or terrible birthday, W!
From Enid Sinclair.
A letter of some sort, for Wednesday Friday Addams.
I closed the notebook slowly, the letter neatly tucked in between the pages again. For someone so noisy, she somehow manages to leave me in the kind of silence I can’t quite define. Thing tapped impatiently on the desk again, his fingers a rhythmic reminder that he has no sense of boundaries.
"Why are you so invested in this? No, I won’t read it now," I told him without looking up. He signed something sharp in return, his equivalent of a sigh.
"There’s plenty of time to read it. And I already know what’s inside, ramblings about glitter, sunlight, and her latest emotional disaster," I countered. But he kept insisting, fingers forming words faster than I could dismiss them.
"Fine," I muttered. "Just so you’ll stop pestering me."
I opened the notebook again and took out the folded letter nestled between the pages. It was longer than I expected, of course it was. Enid Sinclair never knew when to stop talking, even on paper.
I unfolded it carefully.
Hi roomie, don’t be shocked that I can actually write a proper letter, or at least try. I know, you’ll probably hate this and will definitely find a lot of typos that will haunt you in your sleep, but whatever.
Typical. She insults herself before I can.
So, terrible birthday to you, Wends! I think if I somehow finished this letter and luckily survived this summer without going insane, then you’re reading this right now! I’ve been thinking about what gift I can give you, because you clearly loved the snood I made. Thanks for sacrificing it to the Hyde, by the way.
I almost smiled. Almost.
I just remembered your typewriter the moment I gave this thought a try. Clearly, I don’t own one, so I’m doing this on my laptop for now, deal with it. I don’t even know what to write here. My goal is just to reach at least 5k words. And before you judge, of course I will give you the handwritten version, it's just easier to ramble here and erase things without hassle if I want to.
Of course she would set a word count for a letter and over explain herself.
I guess I’ll just tell you something you don’t know. Right?
My head already ached from the excess of her energy captured in ink, but that last line, something you don’t know, managed to pull me in. It’s strange how a single sentence from her could disarm me so effectively.
I leaned back in my chair, the paper trembling slightly between my fingers, I stare at it for a long time realizing that, true to her words, she indeed gave me the handwritten one.
Thing had gone still too, as if even he understood that what followed might not be something easily unread. There are very few things in life I don’t already know, and fewer still that interest me enough to find out. But Enid Sinclair, she’s been a constant anomaly in my otherwise predictable equation.
I adjusted my posture, held the page closer to the light, and continued reading, despite the sinking suspicion that whatever came next would make it impossible to return to the indifference I’d perfected.
We never talked about that night or the things that happened before and after it.
My fingers stilled over the page.
Trust Enid to turn even a confession into something disarmingly sincere. She never begins softly, yet she always ends somewhere that makes silence feel heavier than it should.
It felt like we just continued our lives without mentioning anything, without acknowledging whatever happened. It felt like a passing dream, something unreal that you’ll never recall fully when you wake up, but the fragments of it will haunt you for eternity. It felt like that for me. I don’t know how it felt for you. Maybe it was a nightmare, no?
A nightmare. The word clung to me like smoke.
I remember that night far too vividly to call it a dream. The air had been electric, alive in the way a dying star burns brightest before collapse. Every look, every word, every inch between us carried a strange gravity. Then, without my consent, it crossed a line that no longer felt like one.
She calls it haunting; I call it…inconvenient.
But neither of us are entirely wrong.
Thing shifted on the desk, tapping lightly as though urging me to keep reading. I ignored him, though I could feel the weight of his curiosity echoing my own.
Her handwriting faltered here, pressed harder into the page, as if the act of remembering hurt. Strange. Enid Sinclair rarely writes with caution; she lives too loudly for that. But this, this was written like she was afraid of what would happen once it existed.
If she only knew how the same memory still threads itself through the cracks of my focus. How it returns at inconvenient hours, uninvited yet persistent. How it has turned the silence I once worshiped into something that feels…less like peace, and more like longing.
She believes she’s the torture.
Perhaps she’s right.
Because no blade, no ancient pilgrim, no unrestrained hyde, has ever unsettled me the way she does, with nothing more than the sound of her name in my mind.
I traced the edge of the paper, trying to decide whether to stop or surrender to the pull of her next line. If this letter is truly her idea of punishment, then I must admit, she’s succeeded.
I thought I was late that time. You were pinned by him the moment I arrived. I never felt like that, the emotions consumed me, seeing you on the brink of death, even though I know you enjoyed the thought of it. All I could think about then was getting you out of there and killing him. I fought him hard, knowing you were out there alive.
Or so I thought.
Please don’t get angry with Thing. I cornered him to tell me the truth about that night.
I looked at the hand in front of me. Thing was already tapping fast against the wooden desk, fingers moving in frantic defense, explaining, apologizing.
So he told her.
For once, I couldn’t bring myself to scold him. The betrayal didn’t sting in the usual way; it just settled heavy in my chest.
Why didn’t you mention to me that you got stabbed, and once again, on the brink of death? What if no one found you? What if Goody didn’t help that time? You’re so stubborn, and honestly, so selfless. For someone who despises any form of affection, you’re so selfless to the point I almost lost you without even knowing!
Why didn’t you tell me, Wends? Is that why you hugged me that night? Why you were so eager not to leave my side even though you hate physical contact?
The letter blurred for a moment before my eyes steadied again. My grip on the paper tightened, the edges curling slightly.
She wasn’t supposed to know. No one was. I buried that night the same way I bury everything that threatens to make me feel too much, deep enough that not even nightmares could claw it back.
And yet, somehow, she did.
Thing signed something quietly, his gestures slower now, apologetic. He told me the wolf cried for hours after finding out. That she grieved as if I’d already died, that for a moment, she truly believed I had.
The idea of Enid Sinclair crying over me should have been absurd. But instead, it lodged itself somewhere between my ribs and refused to move.
I wanted to call her foolish. Emotional. Predictable.
But what I felt instead was fear, raw and human.
Fear that she had seen too much of me that night.
Fear that she had cared more than I allowed myself to believe.
Fear that, perhaps, I cared in return.
The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as if her words had reshaped it. I glanced at Thing, who’d gone still once again, and I knew he could feel it too, the shift neither of us wanted to name.
I returned my gaze to the letter, her handwriting still loud, still alive on the page. There was more to read, and I should have stopped there.
But I couldn’t.
Because for all her noise, color and chaos, Enid Sinclair somehow managed to make me feel the one thing I’ve always despised most...alive.
I was scared. Maybe I still am. The thought of losing you, my best friend. It hurts, Wends.
Oh.
Right. That’s why.
Thing signed something in my periphery, his movements tentative, careful, as if afraid even his silence might shatter whatever fragile calm lingered between us and the room.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t even look.
The ache that had begun to stir minutes ago retreated, slipping back into the hollowed-out place where I keep everything I refuse to feel.
The warmth...the brief, unbearable swell of it, was gone. In its place came the familiar pulse of nothingness. Cold. Steady. Merciful. Something cracked inside me, but I didn’t name it. I never do.
Naming gives things power.
Please, don’t do that again. I don’t think I can survive that.
Survive.
Such a peculiar choice of word. Enid Sinclair has always spoken in feelings, not facts, but this one lingered longer than I expected. I could almost see her writing it, pausing, hesitating, as if she knew she was confessing something she shouldn’t.
And yet, she still did.
The irony, of course, is that she feared losing me. The one person who has spent her entire life preparing to lose everything.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the silence press against my ears. It wasn’t grief I felt, not exactly. Grief is for those who still hope for something to change.
This was quieter. Heavier.
Something close to being haunted by a heartbeat that wasn’t supposed to matter.
She calls me her best friend.
That should have been enough. It should have settled everything, tied a neat, white bow on a story that never needed more than that. But the words hurt anyway. Because I knew what she didn’t: there are things far worse than death.
And feeling something for someone you were never meant to is one of them.