Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

♱ ˖ ࣪ ★ Wednesday POV ♱ ˖ ࣪ ★

Supposedly, I have a taste for pain. Not the polite, sentimental kind that mortals mistake for suffering—brief bruises, fleeting burns, scratches that heal in a week. No. I have cultivated an appreciation for the deliberate, the exquisite, the pain that leaves marks on flesh and mind alike. But tonight's torment exceeds even what I have ever sought. It is not pain, not exactly—it is siege, invasion, relentless assault on the very fibers of my being. My assailant is not a sharpened blade or a firebrand, but a creature of vibrant color, excessive cheer, and unyielding verbosity. She is the very incarnation of sunlight pressed into human form, radiating a brightness so unnatural that it provokes physical discomfort. To look at her for longer than a fleeting moment is to feel my skin crawl, my nerves recoil in indignation, as though every cell recognizes her as a foreign invader. Allegedly, this situation is my own doing. Previous institutions—unable to contain me, incapable of enduring the persistence of my shadowed existence—have expelled me, leaving me unmoored, untethered, and yet unwilling to compromise. Perhaps this school will fail in similar fashion. Perhaps I will endure. Perhaps not.

The room is divided in a manner that seems intentional, symbolic, as if fate itself had drawn a line to separate light from shadow, chaos from order. My side is a sanctuary, a carefully arranged space in which darkness gathers like loyal soldiers. Shadows pool around the bedposts, cling to corners, and press against the floor with a comforting weight. My trunk is closed, books stacked with military precision, pens aligned like silent sentinels, papers in perfect columns awaiting ink. My black candle sits unlit on the nightstand, a sentinel of calm in a chaotic universe, waiting for the moment I might decide to illuminate it. In this half of the room, I can almost convince myself that I retain dominion, that order still exists. Almost.

Her side is an affront, a riot of color, texture, and incessant sound. Fairy lights sag in careless arcs, vomiting intermittent illumination over a battlefield of stuffed animals whose unblinking eyes regard me as if I were a trespasser in their domain. Posters—adorable animals with grotesquely large eyes, screaming rock bands mid-performance, landscapes painted in blinding neon—cover nearly every surface, demanding attention, demanding response. Clothing spills from drawers in chaotic abandon. Glitter clings to every surface, a persistent, glittering pathogen. The floor is littered with notebooks and journals, open to pages full of doodles, lists, and scrawled thoughts, each one a testament to a mind incapable of restraint. And through it all, her voice persists, a never-ending river of syllables, cascading with such force that silence has been banished from the room entirely.

I had hoped, briefly, for divine intervention: a fly wandering into her mouth, sudden laryngitis, or an untimely bout of muteness. But the universe is indifferent, and she speaks without pause, from the tour of the school until now, as if silence were an offense. I am confined to my corner, my shadowed half of the room, staring at the ceiling and counting cracks, tracing fractures as if they were a lattice of fate, imagining the moment I might vanish entirely into their void. Each syllable she utters is a strike against the fragile walls of my patience, each phrase a hammer against my desire for peace.

"And they want to send me to another camp, can you believe it? I know I'm a late bloomer, but we all take our time wolfing out. Why can't I have more time?" she complains, for what must be the hundredth time. The words fall like repeated blows, a metronome of self-pity and desperation. I do not respond. I do not even look at her. Silence is a weapon, sharper than any blade, and I wield it with deliberate precision. Yet she is impervious.

"It sucks to be so... different in a school that is already for outcasts. It's a joke, come on, how can I be so unlucky?" she laments, her voice spilling into the room like sugar poured over a wound, sticky and relentless. Without the slightest pause for reflection, she continues to catalogue her perceived misfortunes, unspooling a tapestry of insecurities as if they were decorative streamers meant to brighten the gloom. The irony of her confession is almost poetic: a girl so determined to shine that she has become blinded by her own glow, unable to see how her incessant noise grinds against the silence like sandpaper on bone.

Her words, fluttering and soft on the surface but heavy underneath, batter against my skull like moths against a glass pane. They are harmless, yet their persistence is maddening. My patience thins with every syllable, a taut wire threatening to snap. She does not notice—how could she? She is cocooned inside her own performance of vulnerability, oblivious to the shadows in which she's cast me.

I feel the retort rise in my throat, sharp and cold, a beautifully serrated remark that would slice her monologue cleanly in two. It would be so easy to speak, to extinguish her chirping with a single, surgical phrase. And yet, for reasons as elusive as they are infuriating, I restrain myself. My lips remain pressed into a thin, pale line, my tongue a serpent coiled in silence. Silly of me, I suppose. Perhaps I am indulging some masochistic impulse, testing the limits of my own endurance. Or perhaps I am waiting—to see how far her noise will go before the bright façade cracks and I glimpse the creature beneath. Either way, I do not speak. I endure.

She rises from her bed, pacing, her gestures wide and erratic, as if the invisible air around her were a canvas to shape with her hands. "They keep telling me to try harder. To be patient. To believe it'll happen. But what if it doesn't? What if I never wolf out? What if I'm destined to remain... incomplete?" Her voice quavers now, almost imperceptibly, betraying the fragile core beneath her garish exterior. Vulnerability is a weapon, untrained and dangerous, and she wields it without awareness. She does not know I see it all, cataloging each tremor, each flicker of doubt, each microexpression of anxiety.

"Sometimes I think there's something wrong with me. Something... fundamentally wrong," she whispers, softer now, almost plaintive. "Everyone else knows who they are. They bloom, they change. They become. And me? I'm just... me. Too loud. Too bright. Never enough."

I trace the cracks in the ceiling again, watching as they twist and multiply in my imagination, forming an intricate lattice that mirrors the slow erosion of my patience. Every word she utters drives another nail into the coffin of her unexamined existence. My attention catalogues her movements with the precision of a surgeon: the slight tremor of her hands, the tilt of her head, the micro-expression that flickers across her face for a fraction of a second before disappearing. She is oblivious to my scrutiny, and this ignorance is a kind of theater I endure with a grim amusement.

And then she says it—the word that cleaves the air and slices through my evening like a jagged blade: Wenny.

"Am I right, Wenny?" she asks, her smile triumphant, as though she has offered me some great gift.

I turn deliberately, slow, measured, my face a mask of ice. Wenny. My name corrupted into something trivial, something grotesque.

"Wenny?" I repeat, cold, deliberate. Each syllable a scalpel cutting the notion of intimacy she presumes.

"Yes! Wenny! Don't you like it? I think it's lovely. Short, like you. Easier to say. It's what friends do, right?" Her grin is insufferably bright. Friends. We are not friends. We barely know one another. I know more about her than she knows about me after hearing her rambling for hours, yet she presumes closeness. It is audacious, almost laughable, if it weren't so grating.

"Oh God, I can't wait to hear what nickname you'll choose for me," she continues, spiraling on. "Something scary? Or ironic? Or maybe both! Friends always invent secret languages. You'll have to promise to play along, Wenny. You'll have to."

Her energy pulses through the room, pressing against walls, floor, and shadow. I turn to the ceiling again, tracing fractures, imagining them widening, imagining a void into which I might vanish entirely, leaving her rainbow chaos behind. Each phrase is another hammer blow. Each confession another spark against my carefully maintained patience.

"Sometimes I feel invisible," she murmurs, softer, vulnerable now. "Like people only notice the surface. My brightness, my laugh—but not me. Not who I really am."

She does not perceive the irony. I have catalogued her in entirety, observed her minutiae, her expressions, her rhythms, her habits. She exposes herself completely, and yet remains blissfully unaware of her witness.

"I try to be cheerful," she continues, voice trembling, "to be liked, to be noticed. But what if it's never enough? What if the moment I falter, they stop seeing me entirely? What if I'm... nothing?"

The fairy lights flicker. Stuffed animals stare. My black candle waits, silent and expectant. Hours pass, unmeasured, unrecorded, a flood of words and confessions that wears down the very concept of time. I lie among my shadows, cataloging, observing, enduring.

I could tell her to be quiet. I could end this verbal siege with a single, measured command—one syllable, cold and absolute, would cut through her ceaseless chatter like a guillotine. I imagine it often: my voice low and lethal, the silence that would follow, the look of startled betrayal in her kaleidoscopic eyes. It would be simple. It would be satisfying. And yet, for reasons I cannot quite name, my tongue remains still, a coiled serpent content to wait. Perhaps it is curiosity—a morbid fascination with seeing how long she can continue this unbroken stream of consciousness before her lungs rebel. Perhaps it is a perverse experiment in endurance, my own private crucible. Or perhaps, though I loathe to admit it, some faint, unwanted thread of empathy winds itself through my resolve, restraining the blade of my words before it strikes. Whatever the cause, I remain silent.

Instead, I let my gaze drift upward, tracing the fractures in the ceiling as though they are escape routes mapped for me alone. The plaster above me resembles a frozen river, its cracks like tributaries, winding, splitting, converging—a labyrinth of white veins spreading endlessly into shadow. My eyes follow one until it vanishes into darkness, and for a moment I imagine that if I stare hard enough, it will widen, split open, and swallow me whole. The fantasy is a small mercy. If I cannot silence her, perhaps I can dissolve myself.

The thought of sleep comes not as comfort but as a grim potential—like the cool touch of a shroud. I imagine it taking me away from this fluorescent hell, pulling me down into a velvet abyss where no voices echo and no pink light bleeds across the floor. Perhaps it could be forever. Perhaps oblivion itself might be so kind. But I doubt the universe would grant me such a reprieve so early in my sentence. More likely, I will lie here awake, my ears assaulted, my patience tested, my mind calculating how many hours remain until dawn. And so I remain, staring at the ceiling, listening to the ceaseless drone of her voice, and enduring.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟI've been a lot of lonely places I've never been on the outside  ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Enid POV  °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Well, in all honesty, when I first found out I'd be sharing my dorm room with someone, I was beyond thrilled. Like, heart-flip, sparkle-in-my-eyes thrilled. I had all these visions in my head: cozy little nights with fairy lights strung across the walls, piles of plushies lined up like an army of soft little cheerleaders, whispered secrets under the covers while the rest of the dorm slept, and maybe even coordinating outfits for maximum dorm-hall impact. I imagined late-night giggles, sharing snacks, bonding over homework, and maybe even swapping playlists filled with songs that perfectly summed up our moods. In my head, it was going to be perfect—the ultimate dorm life dream.

If only that "someone" hadn't turned out to be a dark, grumpy cloud that actively hates me. Ugh. Wednesday Addams. Just saying her name makes me feel like I need a pep talk. She's completely insufferable. Living with her feels like trying to hug a cactus, or like wearing glitter in a rainstorm—you just keep hoping it'll work, but it doesn't, and it hurts. And I've been trying, I really have. I've been giving my absolute, entire, every-last-bit-of-hope-best effort to become besties with her. But nothing—nothing—works. It's like talking to a brick wall, except the wall glares at you and silently judges your taste in colors.

And I refuse to start vivisectioning stuff just to win her over. I mean, come on, that's a line. That's a hard no. I'm not crossing that line. I draw the line at corpses and frogs with googly eyes. But still... still, I try everything else. I showed her the school, pointing out all the best spots where we could hang out, or where she might find some semblance of comfort, or maybe just survive a class without glaring at everyone. I tried introducing her to people, helping her make a few new friends—or at least acquaintances who could tolerate her. I tried integrating her into conversations, talking to her about other people, myself... even Ajax. Yes, Ajax. And still... nothing. Not a flicker of interest. Not a sign that she wants to participate, not even the tiniest hint that she's considering being friendly. It's like she's a storm cloud that absorbs all attempts at cheer.

Even boy talk fails. Boy talk! Every girl likes a little boy talk. Even if it's just to roll her eyes at some awkward crush. I thought maybe that would be our gateway, some universal girl-bonding language. But no. She doesn't engage. She doesn't flinch. She just stares, and it's like she's mentally calculating the exact velocity at which she could hurl me into the nearest dumpster. And honestly, that's fine. I don't care or mind about her disinterest in boys—it's her choice—but it makes trying to reach her feel like swimming through molasses while carrying a backpack full of bricks. Impossible.

I even decided to help her with this... weird, disgusting search for this Hyde thing. Gross. Just saying the word makes me want to wash my hands twenty times. And her side of the room? It's a nightmare. Bloody images everywhere, pinned up like some kind of twisted art gallery, diagrams that make me want to look away, and general chaos that I can't even begin to process. I risk fainting at every glance in her direction. It's hard to breathe sometimes, honestly. And yet, I keep going. I keep trying.

I'm losing hope. And I never lose hope. That's my thing. That's what defines me. But Wednesday... well, she's Wednesday. I've never met someone as... peculiar as her. Peculiar doesn't even cover it. It's like trying to read a book where all the pages are invisible, and even when you think you've understood it, the plot twists in ways you didn't expect. Gosh, it's exhausting. And fascinating. And terrifying all at once. She's like having my very own Elphaba in this universe—dark, mysterious, misunderstood, impossible, with a heart I'm determined to find.

And maybe, just maybe, if I showed her that musical, we could bond. Uuuu, I can imagine us singing together, laughing at our differences, somehow connecting. But no. No. She would probably choke me in my sleep if I even tried. And so I don't. I don't push that far. I hold onto my hope, small and fragile as it is, and keep trying in ways that won't land me in the hospital.

I sigh, plopping onto my bed with a soft little bounce as the mattress dips under me, the springs squeaking faintly. My head hits the pile of pillows on my side — pastel pink, lavender, mint green, all arranged neatly because at least one half of this room should look inviting. I stare up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly, thinking and thinking and thinking about how to get her to open up. I'm running mental circles around myself at this point. It's really starting to feel impossible. Everything I do, every single attempt to reach her, ends up in a fight or at the very least another one of her soul-piercing stares.

I help her set up her side of the room, thinking maybe I can make it more functional, more comfortable. She explodes. "NO, ENID, HOW DARE YOU GET MY GLOOMY STUFF DIRTY IN PINK." The way she said "pink" like it was a curse word will probably echo in my skull forever.

I try something else. A friendship bracelet. Cute, thoughtful, colorful, with a pattern I picked out just for her. "I WOULD NEVER WEAR SUCH A THING." She didn't even look at it for more than two seconds. Just rejection, cold and instant.

I bury my face in my pillow and groan softly, my fingers clutching at the edges. I can't keep trying forever. Nothing is working. Nothing. Her constant glare, the heavy silence like a cloud that never moves, the relentless typing of her novel which requires me to be dead silent or risk another icy glare... it's all starting to get to me. And the cello playing — don't even get me started on the cello playing. Hours at night. Dark, moody, haunting notes that creep into my dreams and turn them into something out of a gothic horror story. At first, I thought it was kind of cool, in an "I live with a mysterious artist" way. But now? It's unbearable. Like she's playing the soundtrack of my slow mental unraveling.

So, more fights. Always more fights. And the one we're in now isn't the first, and it's definitely not going to be the last. I know that much already. We're locked in this weird cycle — me trying, her rejecting, me pushing, her retreating, and somewhere in between a small disaster always waiting to happen.

Okay, maybe this particular one was a bit my fault. Maybe. I shouldn't have mixed her black ink with the new pink one I bought. But it was such a cute shade of pink! It was practically begging to be tried out. I thought maybe she'd see the humor, the aesthetic potential. Black and pink, gothic chic, right? But no. Not even a glimmer of curiosity. Just more fury, more sharp words, more Addams gloom.

I flop onto my back again, arms stretched out across my bedspread covered in pastel wolf paw prints. My plushies stare back at me from their perch on the shelf, silently supportive, their button eyes glinting in the soft fairy-light glow. I run a hand through my hair and huff out another sigh. But no. I'm Enid Sinclair. I might not be able to wolf out yet — not yet — but just like I'm not losing hope on that, I am certainly not losing hope on Wednesday Gloomy Boring Addams. Not today. Not ever.

I move quietly, trying not to make a sound, like I'm sneaking around a wild animal that might bolt — or in this case, hiss. The steam curls lazily from the cup of tea in my hands, a thin ribbon of warmth rising into the cool, dim air of our room. It smells faintly sharp and earthy, nothing sweet about it, just bitter leaves steeped in hot water. No milk, no sugar, no honey, nothing that could be mistaken for comfort. It's a simple, sad, slightly bitter tea. Just like her.

I set it gently on her bedside table, the wood cool under my fingertips. It's a peace offering, a silent apology. I don't say anything, because words haven't been working lately. Maybe tea will do what talking can't. My tail — if I had one — would be tucked between my legs right now, because I know how these little gestures usually go.

I retreat to my side of the room, sinking onto my bed like a soldier retreating to the safety of her camp. My knitting needles click softly as I pick them back up, the pastel yarn running through my fingers like cotton candy. Around me, my plushies stand guard on the shelves and pillows, a pastel-colored army of comfort. Their round little eyes seem to watch me with quiet support, though I know it's just me projecting my desperate need for encouragement.

The room is still for a moment, just the quiet hiss of the radiator and the whisper of yarn sliding over my fingers. Then the door creaks open — that slow, drawn-out creak that makes you think of old haunted houses in bad movies. I don't have to look up. I can feel her. Her presence changes the air, heavier, darker, like a shadow sliding over sunlight.

Her broody figure stands in the doorway, scanning the room with that same cold, assessing stare she gives everything. Even without looking, I can feel her eyes snagging on the color of my sweater, the pink practically screaming at her retinas. I know it's disturbing her. Everything on my side of the room does — the fairy lights, the pillows, the plushies, the pastel rainbow bleeding over half the space like a bubblegum explosion. I imagine it must look to her like a crime scene from a Lisa Frank nightmare.

She walks over to her bedside table, her movements deliberate, like a crow approaching a shiny object. The cup of tea sits there, still steaming faintly, waiting. She stops in front of it, tilting her head a little. With a couple of steps, she's right there, inspecting it thoroughly like it might explode. Her fingers hover over the cup, pale against the dark sleeve of her sweater, and she glares at me across the room, searching for a reaction.

I keep my eyes on my knitting, my needles clicking steadily. I know exactly what that glare means. It means she's trying to decide if this is a trap, if I've poisoned her, or if I've done something even worse, like sprinkle glitter in it. I want to say, "Relax, I didn't poison it, and no, it won't turn your insides pink," but I don't. I just stay quiet, knitting one, purling one, letting the silence stretch like yarn between us.

To my disbelief, she finally lifts the cup to her lips and takes a small, soft sip. My heart does a little flip. She doesn't even look that disgusted. No grimace. No insult. No scathing remark about my attempt at peacemaking. She just sits down on her bed, her posture still straight, still guarded, and quietly keeps sipping it.

She doesn't thank me. She doesn't say anything. But she doesn't insult me either. And that — that is something. That's a shift. A break in the pattern. A moment.

It's a win. Or at least, I'm going to count it as one.

My needles pause, my hands still for a heartbeat, and I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She's still sipping, still silent, still Wednesday. But maybe, just maybe, there's a crack in that wall. I smile a little to myself, turning back to my knitting, the yarn soft between my fingers.

I'll win you over, Wenny. You'll see.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟYou've got no reason to be afraid ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

♱ ˖ ࣪ ★ Wednesday POV ♱ ˖ ࣪ ★

Clearly, my practiced coldness toward her has failed to penetrate whatever primitive insulation exists in that head of hers — a head, I suspect, that is probably stuffed with fur rather than coherent thought. She has not, despite my unambiguous silences and deliberate distance, grasped the simple truth that I do not wish to be an unwilling audience for her petty melodramas. She continues to parade them before me anyway, oblivious, as though my stillness were an invitation rather than a warning. Her endless monologues about "boy issues" — the saga of that mid-tier creature named Ajax, or whatever his banal missteps may be — are like some grotesque soap opera performed in a language I refuse to learn.

It is astounding, almost impressive, how she manages to mistake my indifference for participation. Each time she launches into a retelling of their latest miscommunication, I feel as though I am being force-fed a diet of lukewarm clichés. They "lack communication skills," she says — a fact so obvious that even a corpse could deduce it. And yet she seems compelled to analyze every syllable of his inaction, every flicker of his expression, as if divination could extract meaning from the banal. Coming from me, that is saying something. I am hardly a champion of interpersonal warmth. Yet even I know that if you must speak of someone, at least let it be of interest.

I cannot fathom how anyone, let alone a girl so otherwise obsessed with color and vitality, can devote so much time to something so inherently lifeless. Problems with the opposite gender. Romantic entanglements. This is the terrain of the small and the trivial, the currency of those who crave distraction rather than understanding. To hear it spoken aloud is to be reminded that most of humanity, even its so-called "outcasts," are bound by the same dull rituals.

Once, I confess, I treated her ramblings as a minor intellectual exercise — a kind of fieldwork, a side quest to distract me from my true pursuits. Observing her reactions to Ajax's latest slight or silence was a window into a psyche far removed from my own, a case study in the unexamined heart. But even that has soured. What began as observation has become irritation; the experiment is over, the subject redundant. Her tales have lost whatever novelty they once held and now echo with a kind of exhausting sameness.

She is annoying. Annoying in every conceivable permutation of the word, in every configuration that the syllables can be rearranged. Annoying as a noise, as a presence, as an idea. Her voice is a constant, a buzzing that seeps under my skin like static. Her gestures, her expressions, her endless preoccupation with the meaningless — each is a small violation of the silence I try to cultivate around myself. And yet she remains oblivious, chattering on, while I sit in my darkened corner, an unwilling witness to her glittering theatre of triviality.

It is, without question, a foolish mistake on my part—this persistent listening, this endurance masquerading as observation. Some kind of masochism, no doubt, though of a quieter and more insidious breed than the physical variety I've always found so refreshingly straightforward. Her words spill again, a saccharine lamentation I've heard in countless permutations: "And we were both obviously looking at each other on the other side of the courtyard, and he still did nothing. His eyes were talking to me." She speaks as though recounting some grand epic, but to me it sounds like the whimpering echo of a failed experiment. I sit, my face a study in practiced impassivity, watching her hunched, glowing form atop that abomination she calls a bed—pink, of course, a shade so aggressively cheerful it seems to hum at a frequency only the naïve can hear. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second—her enormous blue eyes, liquid and unguarded, colliding with my own like a wave breaking against stone. For the briefest instant she stops talking, as if even she can sense the sudden shift in current between us.

A flicker of something—an electric tremor—threads itself down my spine, a sensation like static crawling under my skin. My expression does not falter. My face remains as it always does: a mask carved from the idea of stillness, giving nothing, demanding nothing. Yet inside, something stirs, an unwelcome pulse of recognition. These moments have become more frequent, these charged silences where her eyes seem to reach for something unspeakable in mine. Terrible mistake, allowing it to happen. I should have cut the thread before it wove itself into a pattern. Instead, I let it spool on, and now I'm left with these symptoms—faint, creeping, unbidden.

Jealousy? Confusion? The words themselves feel alien in my mind, as though they belong to a language I've sworn never to speak. She keeps rambling about Ajax, about his indecision, about his glances across courtyards and the supposed poetry of his silence. But the look in her eyes when she glances at me does not change. It is steady, unyielding, almost deliberate. Is it a challenge? A provocation? A tease? Or is it simply another misstep born of her obliviousness, her inability to read the danger in the dark spaces she keeps pressing toward? I cannot tell, and that, perhaps, is the most unsettling part.

She then abruptly gets up, springing from her bed with a suddenness that catches the air itself off guard, and her hands clamp around my arms before I can even react. My face remains perfectly stoic, frozen in the habitual mask I wear when confronted with intrusion, every muscle taut with controlled stillness. I do not move; I do not respond. I am an immovable object, and yet she shakes me with a desperate insistence, eyes wide and glued to mine. "WHAT CAN I DO, WENNY? I DON'T UNDERSTAND THAT GUY!" she cries, the words jagged with urgency and helplessness.

Wenny. That hideous, corrupted echo of my name, repeated again and again despite my patient refusals. The sound grates on my nerves like sandpaper against bone, yet she does not pause, does not falter, as if the mere act of saying it can compel intimacy or comprehension. I shamefully take too long to react, more time than I should allow, my gaze sweeping over her frantic, pleading face. A slight shiver of disgust curls in my stomach, thin and sharp, at the familiarity of her gestures that have been occurring far too long, far too often, and which I have tolerated with increasing irritation.

Each time, I take longer to disentangle myself from her touch, lingering in the moment like a careful experiment in endurance. Finally, I shove her lightly off me, deliberate but not violent, as if the warmth of her hands had burned me and I am merely retreating from the scorch. My face remains stern, almost disgusted, the mask unbroken, giving nothing away. I do not flinch. I do not soften. I catalog the lingering heat of her touch as a physical intrusion, one that imprints itself faintly on my skin, a reminder of the chaos she carries in every movement.

"Just talk with him... stupid," I whisper sharply, the final insult clipped and low, a precise sting aimed at cutting through the haze of her whining. My lips barely move, but the weight behind the words is deliberate. The split-second flinch of my own stomach, a small, involuntary shudder, is the only sign that the act of speaking them has stirred some tiny ripple within me. Yet I do not look away; I do not apologize. The words hang between us, sharp, fleeting, and final, intended to sever the conversation at its root, leaving her to navigate the aftermath of her own insistence.

For a split second, my stomach does a flip, a traitorous flutter in an otherwise controlled and disciplined body. It is a small, almost imperceptible betrayal — but I feel it all the same, a tiny spark of unease coiled in my gut. Regret creeps in like a slow-moving shadow, not because my words were cruel (they were meant to be), but because of what they might cause. What if these stupid looks, these fleeting gestures she sends fluttering toward him like some lovesick moth, actually falter if she talks with him? What if her reaching, her endless rambling, the tension that coils around her like a pastel ribbon, dissolves into nothing if she finally acts? Better... yes, absolutely better. The thought tastes bitter but necessary, like medicine. These glances and sighs are just as I have always known them: stupid, meaningless, and without an obvious thought behind them.

No, the real weakness here is not hers. It's mine. I am getting weaker, eroded by exposure, forced to exist in an environment drowning with so much color it feels like drowning in saccharine syrup. Every hour spent beside her soft edges and glittering brightness is like a test I did not consent to, a slow fraying of the threads I have bound so tightly around myself.

Predictably, my advice — simple, blunt, efficient — is not received with any gratitude. It never is. As always, she protests, her voice rising in a whine that fills the air like an unpleasant frequency only I can hear. She insists that he should talk, not her. She lists, as if reciting a sacred text, the unspoken "rules" of their imaginary coupledom: how the boy must act first, how she cannot. The logic is paper-thin, riddled with holes, but she clings to it with the fervor of a drowning person clutching a piece of driftwood. Both of them are idiots, two halves of an equation that will never balance, endlessly circling a solution neither of them has the nerve to solve.

I stare at her without blinking, my face a blank canvas on which nothing registers. Yet even as my eyes remain fixed on her, my mind drifts elsewhere — anywhere. I focus on what lies behind her instead: the wall, cracked faintly at the edges; the shadow of my own half of the room creeping upward like spilled ink; the faint shimmer of those cursed fairy lights strung across her side. Their glow is a constant low hum, a sickly-sweet aura pressing against my senses. Her colorful presence makes me nauseous, as if I've been locked in a room with a living kaleidoscope that refuses to stop spinning.

Her hand still rests on my shoulder, an unwelcome weight radiating warmth that feels like contamination. I can feel the imprint of her touch sinking into my skin like a rash forming before it blooms. The thought slithers through me: if only those fairy lights could fulminate her, spark and explode, casting a cleansing shadow over her pastel world and mine. But the lights do not burst, and her hand does not move, and I remain still, a prisoner of her bright, suffocating world, enduring it in silence.

I would like to blame my masochism for my behavior toward her — to chalk it up to some perverse appetite for suffering, a slow self-inflicted torment disguised as endurance. And perhaps that's exactly what it is. It would be convenient to label it so, to give this absurd tolerance of mine a name: masochism led by the constant misinterpretation of her ceaselessly sweet behavior toward me. I have told myself, over and over, that her chirping voice, her saccharine gestures, her relentless warmth are nothing but irritations to be endured like needles pressed into skin. But that explanation — neat, clinical — only partially holds.

Because there is something else at work. Something that creeps uninvited into my mind when I least expect it. I notice it in the smallest details: the flicker in her nose when she looks at me, the faint quickening of her eyes when they meet my own. It's the exact same flicker she has with Ajax. I know it. I've cataloged it. And yet it persists here, with me. The reason for it eludes me. I do not grasp it fully, and perhaps I refuse to. Emotions, after all, are not puzzles I wish to solve. I despise them. I despise humans. I despise the tangled mess of feelings that drips off them like syrup. And she — Enid Sinclair — is all of it embodied, a living diorama of sentimentality, if we choose to ignore her werewolf form.

And yet the thought keeps spinning in my head like a coin I cannot make stop rolling. It circles and circles, refusing to fall flat. I cannot shut it up. Her flicker, her gestures, her touch, her color. Even now, it presses in at the edges of my mind, irritating, distracting, invasive.

If only the probable rash I will inevitably develop from her touch could choke me, suffocate me, end these thoughts once and for all. If only the contamination of her warmth could become something lethal, something final, something cleansing. But I doubt any of this will, unfortunately, take place. Life rarely grants such mercies. Instead, I am left here — enduring her brightness, her chatter, her touch — a prisoner of my own patience, forced to confront the uncomfortable possibility that beneath my disdain, something else has begun to stir.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟWho else decodes you? ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

♱ ˖ ࣪ ★ Wednesday POV ♱ ˖ ࣪ ★

Finally, my writing hour. Sacred, inviolable, mine. The only time in this repugnant day that truly belongs to me, carved out from the chaos like a clean incision. At last, silence — or at least something resembling it. A break from the Hyde, from the suffocating research, from the incessant interference of people and their endless, trivial demands. A break from thoughts. A break from her.

It is shameful, though, how often she manages to infiltrate even these carefully guarded sanctuaries of mine. Shameful how her presence seeps through the cracks of my discipline like water finding its way into stone, eroding me grain by grain. More shameful still that I allow it — that I catch myself replaying her gestures, her looks, her ceaseless chatter in the recesses of my mind as if they are some unfinished melody stuck on repeat. They spin endlessly, each motion replayed with unwanted precision: her laugh, her eyes darting toward mine, her uninvited touches. They form a loop, a vicious cycle of confusion, and no matter how many times I dissect it, I cannot make it stop.

I tell myself this hour is for reprieve, for clarity, for writing. My sanctuary, my ritual, my breath of air in a swamp of suffocation. I try, at least, to anchor myself in it, to hold to the page and the words I etch upon it. Simple sentences, clean thoughts, precise language — all that I require. Nothing much. A break. A fragile partition built between myself and the world, though I know how often the walls crumble.

And yet, even as the ink flows beneath my hand, I feel the pull — a soft but persistent distraction, her shadow lingering at the edge of my consciousness. It is as though my writing itself must fight to exist, to push back against the pastel-colored haze that insists on creeping closer.

But of course, everything is cut short. Much shorter than I would have wanted. The moment I begin to slip into the quiet rhythm of words, to find the cadence of my own thoughts, the door slams open with a violence that jars the very walls. My sacred hour, already fragile, shatters instantly. Her presence floods the room like a noxious perfume, bright and cloying, impossible to ignore. Cheery, radiant, unbearable. She does not simply enter a space — she colonizes it, fills it with a suffocating glow until all shadow is forced into retreat.

Before I can even collect the edges of my composure, she is on me. She moves with that unrestrained, puppy-like eagerness that disgusts and bewilders me in equal measure. She jumps toward me, uninvited, a comet of pink and glitter hurtling into the orbit of my darkness. Within moments she has positioned herself behind my desk, her hands falling onto my shoulders as though she has every right to place them there. The touch is unwelcome, too warm, too alive. My face hardens instantly, carved into the cold marble mask I rely upon. Yet still, I do not speak. Words freeze in my throat, brittle and sharp, and I remain locked in place as my fingers falter against the page, my pen stilled mid-sentence.

"Hi, Wenny," she squeaks, her voice pitched with excitement, her tone saccharine and unbearable. The cursed name once again, dropped onto me like a pebble into a well, rippling outward until I can feel its echo rattling inside my skull. I do not answer. Instead, I force my fingers to twitch, to move, to pretend at writing as though the illusion of my focus could somehow drive her away. The letters scrawl unevenly, the ink blotting where my hand trembles ever so slightly. The words I try to force onto the page are meaningless scratches, my mind far too distracted by the reality of her proximity to form coherent thought.

"God, you look beautiful today, you know?" she chirps suddenly, as if the statement were as casual as commenting on the weather. My pen slips for a fraction of a second, dragging ink across the page like a wound. My mind stalls, blank and disbelieving, unable to properly process the words. Beautiful. An adjective I do not require. An observation I did not ask for. Her declaration lingers like smoke, unwelcome and suffocating, and before I can dissect it further she is already rambling again, her voice spilling into a ceaseless stream of trivialities. Each word collides with the next until it becomes a blur, a drone that wraps itself around me, cutting off the last tendrils of silence I had so carefully cultivated.

My mind does not simply wander; it collapses into a void, as if her words have pierced some fragile barrier I did not even realize I had constructed. Beautiful. The syllables echo with a precision that gnaws at the back of my skull. My pen, moments ago obedient in my grip, hangs useless in the air as though frozen mid-thought. The ink stains waiting upon the page blur before my eyes, irrelevant, erased by the singular intrusion of her voice. My shoulders remain trapped beneath the weight of her hands—light to anyone else, perhaps even comforting, but to me they feel like shackles heated in fire. Her touch burns with an intimacy that I never requested, one that pulls me into the kind of domestic nightmare I thought I had long since trained myself to endure.

I am beautiful. She had said it without hesitation, almost casually, as though it were nothing more than a passing remark about the weather, or the intolerable patterns she insists on knitting into her sweaters. But to me, the words detonate. They are unlike anything she has ever bestowed upon Ajax, the subject of her endless, suffocating monologues. She teases him, diminishes him with careless jabs, and yet—somehow—it passes for affection. She cuts him with words, yet she softens for me. Why? What perverse logic compels her to treat me differently, to drape me in sentiments I neither desire nor comprehend?

I despise affection in all its forms. I always have. It reeks of weakness, of dependency, of chains disguised as comfort. My parents displayed their affections with grotesque theatrics that bordered on the unholy, forcing me to witness gestures of passion better left in coffins. I swore I would never be ensnared by such displays. And yet here I am, caught in this grotesque parody of tenderness—her hands on my shoulders, her saccharine compliments in my ears, her very presence turning my carefully constructed solitude into a cage.

Why me? The question gnaws with a persistence that feels almost parasitic. She claims to care for him, to pine over his inattention, to wither beneath his silence. Yet her gaze lingers on me longer than it should, her touches gravitate toward me more often than necessity requires, and her words—words that should be wasted on Ajax... spill out in my direction instead. Why direct affection toward the person who has done nothing but rebuff it? Why feed warmth into a void? Why does she insist on trying to ignite a flame in the heart of someone who has sworn herself to cold?

And worse... why do I notice? Why do I allow it to take root in my mind? Why am I not capable of the clean dissection I apply to everything else... slice it open, identify its innards, name it, and discard it? Instead, I find myself caught, turning these moments over and over like a relic I do not understand. Am I delusional, seeing significance in gestures that mean nothing? Is this merely her nature—recklessly generous, indiscriminate, incapable of containing her affection? Perhaps. That would be the most logical conclusion. And yet, the possibility that these gestures are not entirely meaningless hovers like a noose above my head.

It is becoming unbearable. Too frequent. Too natural. Too practiced, almost, as though she has unconsciously made a ritual out of invading my silence. Her hands linger longer, her eyes hold mine in ways that make my skin itch, her words puncture armor I had considered impenetrable. Every motion, every sound, every inexplicable softness builds into a riddle I cannot solve, a torment I cannot classify.

And so I sit there, shoulders rigid, face carved into stone, fingers motionless against the typewriter. My body reacts as though to poison, recoiling beneath her touch, but my mind is trapped—unwillingly fascinated by words I should have forgotten the instant they were spoken.

I am beautiful... for her I am

The room is too warm. The air is too thick. Her hands are still on me, branding me as surely as fire brands flesh. I do not speak, because I cannot. For the first time in a long time, silence is not my weapon but my only defense against collapse.

I cannot allow such behavior to continue—not toward me, nor, in some twisted sense, toward her. It corrodes the boundaries I have so painstakingly erected, boundaries that are my fortress, my lifeline, my only reliable companion. She has already invaded too much. Her words seep through the cracks in my armor like water, her gestures cling to my skin like poison ivy. Each lingering touch, each ill-timed compliment, each careless nickname laced with a grotesque attempt at endearment erodes the distance I need. I can feel her slowly colonizing my silence, and that is intolerable.

And she—she is all over Ajax. At least, that is what her constant babble suggests. His name flows from her lips like an anthem she resents but cannot stop singing, his every expression dissected, his every silence bewailed. She claims to long for his attention, to suffer from his indifference. And yet her eyes have a habit of wandering elsewhere. Toward me. Her hands wander too, often without her even noticing. It is infuriating. I am myself—immutable, immovable, alone. I do not indulge in foolish tangles of affection, and I most certainly do not care for the dramatics of adolescent attachment. That theater is beneath me.

I cannot drown in her noise any longer. So I act. Abruptly, sharply, as though rising from my chair were a declaration of war. I turn from the desk, from her cloying presence, from the warmth of her palms still burning phantom imprints into my shoulders. My movements are precise, deliberate, stripped of hesitation. For once, I will pierce through her relentless chatter with something sharper than silence.

"Enid," I say, my voice cutting through the room like the edge of a blade. My tone is measured, each syllable crisp and unyielding. "It is my writing time. Quiet."

No plea, no softness, no indulgence of her theatrics. Just an order—bare, merciless, absolute. The room itself seems to recoil. The glow of her pastel fairy lights flickers weakly against the shadow of my tone, as if even artificial brightness cannot withstand it.

Her reaction is immediate. Her face falters, the relentless energy in her eyes dimming, her lips parting only to clamp shut again as though her words had been strangled mid-breath. For once, she is silent. She looks at me with something unspoken shimmering behind those annoyingly blue eyes—hurt, perhaps. Wounded surprise. It is there, raw and undisguised, and for a moment, it almost pricks at something I do not wish to name.

Good. Better this way. The silence is worth the wound. I cannot tolerate more of her endless prattle, her ceaseless noise infecting the very air I try to breathe. She will survive the sting of rejection. She is, after all, remarkably resilient in her optimism, almost to the point of lunacy. She will recover, she will chatter again, she will find someone else to drench with her saccharine affections. Perhaps a friend more willing to indulge her theatrics. Or better yet, a boy. Yes—let her expend her energies on some fumbling male, someone who might actually welcome her chatter, her smiles, her touches. Someone who deserves to drown in her flood of color and sugar.

But then—flirting. The word coils like a serpent in my mind, hissing with implication. Is that what I have just labeled her behavior? Toward me? Flirting? The thought is absurd. Ludicrous. And yet it lodged itself in my consciousness before I could excise it. Have I truly allowed myself to interpret her gestures, her words, her unbearable attentions as something more? Am I so foolish, so delusional, that I would dare ascribe meaning to what is surely nothing but her indiscriminate exuberance?

The answer disgusts me. I feel it twisting in my stomach, an unpleasant churn of realization. I am infected by her, by her endless colors and warmth and optimism. She is corroding my logic, infiltrating my thoughts with suggestions I should have destroyed at their inception. Every second spent in her presence weakens me, dulls my edges, loosens the grip I have over my own detachment.

No. I need distance. A chasm. A wall higher than even her insistent cheer can climb. Loneliness has always been my sanctuary, and I cannot allow it to be dismantled brick by brick by pastel nails and sickly sweet laughter. Better she hurt now, better she turn away, better she find solace in another. Anything is preferable to this erosion of myself.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟTell me I've got it wrong somehow ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

♱ ˖ ࣪ ★ Wednesday POV ♱ ˖ ࣪ ★

My increasingly pathetic attempts to avoid her — my carefully engineered strategies of withdrawal, my subtle maneuvers to slip into shadows before she can follow — are beginning to falter. What once felt like control now feels like a crumbling defense line, paper walls against an invading army of pastel. She is everywhere. Not only, as logic dictates, in the dorm room I am condemned to share with her—a violation of my personal sanctuary I tolerated out of necessity—but also beyond it, in places she should not be.

It is as if she has developed some unholy instinct, a compass tuned not to magnetic fields but to the coordinates of my presence. Cafeteria tables, corridors, library alcoves, even the discreet corners of the courtyard I once considered mine alone—somehow she appears. Not always directly in front of me, but within range, always visible at the edge of my vision. Like a stain on the periphery of my eye that I cannot blink away.

I have tried to rationalize it. Perhaps it is some bizarre werewolf quirk, some latent pack animal behavior that drives her to follow. Perhaps she is simply oblivious to the concept of personal space, incapable of recognizing boundaries. But logic begins to fray as the pattern persists. I will turn down one hall instead of another; she appears. I will move to the far side of the quad; she crosses the grass with a smile. Even when she is not directly before me, I feel her presence like static in the air, prickling at my skin, infiltrating my thoughts.

And those gestures—those infuriating gestures—refuse to leave my mind. I cannot keep them out. Her hands brushing against mine when they shouldn't. Her smile, thrown like a gaudy ribbon across whatever I'm trying to focus on. Her ridiculous insistence on physical contact, on warmth. Each time I think I have catalogued it, boxed it, labeled it as meaningless, some new variation appears, and I am forced to start the grim process again.

I do not want this. I did not ask for this. My thoughts used to be silent, clean, precise. Now they are crowded with fragments of her—the flash of her bright nails, the cadence of her endless chatter, the way her eyes widen at something I've said or not said. She is becoming a fixture, an unwanted echo bouncing in the chambers of my skull. It is unacceptable.

And yet I cannot seem to extract her. Avoidance fails. Coldness fails. Even silence, my sharpest weapon, blunts against her optimism. She absorbs my indifference like a sponge and keeps coming back, bright, relentless, infuriating.

It is exhausting. It is maddening. And worst of all, it is slipping past my armor, not with force but with persistence, like water wearing away stone.

I am currently enduring the last class of the day—a thin, flickering light at the end of a long, oppressive tunnel. Each passing minute drags itself across the clock like a wounded insect, but at least every second that ticks away is one step closer to what I crave: my writing, my quiet, the sanctuary of my own thoughts. That sacred hour feels like the only real air I breathe, and right now I am suffocating.

Miss Thornhill is at the front of the room again, her voice a steady, cheerful drone about some rare or semi-rare plant that blooms only under a blood moon, or something equally mundane in my opinion. She has an unnerving talent for making the exotic sound pedestrian. I already know everything she's saying—botany, unlike people, is predictable, orderly, and incapable of lying. A plant never tries to hug you unexpectedly. A plant never calls you "Wenny." Plants are, in short, preferable to almost everyone in this room.

I don't even pretend to take notes. My pen sits still above an empty page, a prop in a performance I am too bored to give. Around me, no one else is truly paying attention either; eyes glaze, heads lean into palms, whispers crawl along the rows like sluggish insects. A class of outcasts, and yet still so easily distracted by the ordinary.

And yet, despite the collective boredom, I can feel eyes on me. Not in some vague, paranoid sense, but distinctly—weighted, deliberate. Xavier has been staring for what feels like hours. Not subtle glances, but actual, unwavering observation. His gaze lingers like an unwanted draft, brushing against my skin no matter how many times I shift in my seat. And it is not only him. Bianca, his ever-icy ex-girlfriend, has also trained her eyes on me at intervals—sharp, calculating, perhaps suspicious.

Marvelous. Am I, without my knowledge or consent, the latest unwilling participant in a melodrama of adolescent emotions? A love triangle, as the more vapid among us would call it? The thought is absurd. I neither invited nor encouraged such entanglements. Yet here they are—his stare, her glare—two opposing forces circling me as though I am some prize they might claim.

High school romances are ridiculous, the most trivial and predictable of human rituals. They should be abolished, outlawed, burned, salted, and buried for the weeds they are. They turn people into caricatures of themselves, drain their sense, warp their focus. And yet here I sit, the unwilling focal point of two pairs of eyes I did not solicit.

It is exhausting. It is irritating. And it is a perfect encapsulation of why I prefer plants to people. Plants do not stare. Plants do not pine. Plants do not drag you into triangles you never agreed to stand in.

All I want is to leave this room, this day, this school, to retreat to my writing—my one tether to sanity. Yet the eyes remain, the drone continues, and I am stuck in this slow crawl toward the only sanctuary left to me.

On the opposite side of the room, Ajax is engaged in his usual performance of subtle cowardice, if one can even call it subtle. His eyes, wide and vacant as an open grave, are fixed on Enid with a persistence that borders on pathetic. He believes himself discreet, perhaps, but his gaze is obvious, constant, and frankly nauseating. Boys, in their entirety, are shameful creatures—clumsy in their affections, spineless in their executions. They lack the courage to speak, the fortitude to act, and instead sit and stare, festering in their own timidity. Ajax is the perfect specimen of this affliction. No words, no action—just those hopeless eyes glued to the back of Enid's head. It is revolting to witness.

And Enid, predictably, remains unbothered. She doodles on her page, scribbling flowers or stars or whatever whimsical nonsense occupies her restless mind. She is, I am certain, aware of his staring—her instincts as a wolf would alert her to even the faintest scrutiny. And yet she does nothing. No acknowledgment, no sharp word, no curious glance in return. She ignores him entirely, as though his very presence is beneath her notice. It should infuriate me that she tolerates such pitiful behavior. In fact, it does. It is infuriating precisely because it is another example of her ridiculous contradictions: blind to one set of eyes, but endlessly attentive to another.

To mine.

That is the confusion that claws at me. She endures his stare in silence, yet torments me relentlessly when I attempt to maintain my distance. She does not seem to mind being the subject of his useless adoration, but the moment I retreat into the solitude I require, she begins to whine. She presses, she questions, she demands to know why. Why the coldness, why the silence, why the distance? And with every plaintive inquiry, every wounded look, my heart—which I prefer to believe is a lump of stone—falters ever so slightly.

It is grotesque, this faltering. It makes me loathe myself in the moment, loathe the weakness she drags out of me. Against my better judgment, I sometimes wish to relent, to draw closer instead of further away. To listen again to her ceaseless rumbling, even though every word is a nuisance, a blade scraping against my nerves. It makes no sense. Her insistence is both unbearably irritating and unbearably... sweet. Sickly sweet, cloying, suffocating. Like sugar left too long on the tongue, rotting, spoiling.

And yet it is precisely that sweetness that unsettles me most. It clings. It lingers. It is the one toxin that seems to seep past my defenses no matter how tightly I seal them. I want distance. I demand it. And yet part of me—some traitorous, rotting part—aches at the sound of her whine, as if I am guilty of some crime by maintaining my silence.

It is intolerable. It is confusing. It is dangerous. And still, here I sit, aware of his shameless stare, aware of her oblivious doodles, and even more painfully aware of the way she chooses to pursue me while leaving him to waste away in longing. I do not understand it. I do not want to understand it. But I cannot stop turning it over in my head like a puzzle I despise but cannot discard.

The bell rings at last, a shrill liberation that cuts through Miss Thornhill's endless droning about the reproductive virtues of poisonous plants. The room erupts in the usual rustle of notebooks slamming shut and chairs scraping across the floor. But my eyes do not drift to the door as others do. They catch instead on Ajax—pathetic Ajax—already rising to his feet with a determined slump, as if summoning every ounce of bravery his mediocre spine can hold. His destination is obvious. His eyes, as usual, are locked on Enid, hunger and hesitation intertwining in his expression.

And then, almost in tandem, Xavier begins to move as well. His steps are quieter, but no less insufferable. His gaze is on me, as it has been for the duration of the class, smoldering with an intensity I never asked for, never encouraged, and would gladly smother with a bucket of ice water. Am I truly doomed to play centerpiece in these amateur love triangles? To be circled like prey by boys too dull to realize I would rather dissect them than date them?

No. Not today. I will not be trapped by their pathetic advances, nor will I allow Enid to become cornered by Ajax's half-hearted attempt at affection. I am faster. I am slyer. A predator among scavengers. Before either of them can reach their intended target, I move. My stride is sharp, deliberate, cutting through the classroom like the blade of a guillotine.

Her desk comes into view. Enid looks up, startled, her wide blue eyes colliding with mine. I have always despised the way those eyes glow with a kind of relentless optimism, but in this moment they widen further, shimmering as though my presence has lit something within her. And worse, I recognize it. It is the same look she sometimes gives him, the boy across the room who aches for her. That sigh she lets slip, the one that softens her whole expression into something painfully tender—she gives it to me as well. Identical. Interchangeable. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it is different. The ambiguity makes me nauseous.

"Are you coming back to the dorm room?" The words leave my mouth colder than ice, clipped and precise. My voice is my last defense, the sharp edge I use to cut through whatever cloying warmth threatens to entangle me. It is not a question. It is an order disguised as one.

Her eyes, impossibly, grow even brighter. The blue almost glows, catching the faint light of the classroom windows. And then, that smile—wide, radiant, intolerably genuine—erupts across her face. "GOD YES, WENNY! I HAVE SO MANY THINGS TO TELL YOU!" she squeaks, her voice bouncing off the walls with enthusiasm.

I have failed.

The realization strikes instantly. I had come to reclaim my distance, to reestablish the boundaries I had allowed to blur. Yet here I am, undone by the very sweetness I claimed to despise. The warmth in her eyes, the exuberance in her voice—it erodes me faster than any calculated assault could. I am ashamed. Ashamed that my guard falters so easily. Ashamed that I permit her optimism to infect me like a contagion. Ashamed that I cannot cut her down with the precision she deserves.

And then—the final humiliation. Her hand. Small, warm, unbearably soft, it grasps mine without hesitation, claiming it as though it belongs to her. My body stiffens, my expression remains carved in stone, but I do not pull away. Worse still, I allow her to lead me, to tug me from the classroom like a reluctant shadow trailing after the sun. I do not protest. I do not resist. I follow.

Her fingers entwined with mine feel like chains disguised in ribbons. I tell myself I tolerate it only because resistance would create a scene. But the truth—loathed and unspoken—is that some weakness in me hesitates to break the contact. And that weakness disgusts me most of all.

We walk, and the classroom disappears behind us. Ajax remains stranded with his aborted courage, Xavier with his unspent words. They are irrelevant. The real battle is this—the war I am losing against the pastel werewolf at my side.

Weak.

That is what I am. Weak for letting her smile disarm me, weak for letting her voice drown me, weak for letting her hand guide me into the very place I swore I would not go. My dorm. Our dorm. The cell where this torture continues. And yet I do not let go. I am dragged willingly, silently, inexcusably.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟBut there was happiness because of you ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Enid POV °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

My hand wraps around hers, fingers curling carefully, almost reverently, around the cold, pale skin I've been imagining for days. I can feel the faint chill of her hand, like winter air trapped in a marble statue, and somehow, instead of recoiling, it makes me want to hold on tighter. I drag her — gently, but not too gently, because she has this graceful, broody weight that makes me realize she's more solid than she looks — out of class and toward our dorm room. My heart is hammering like a drumline in my chest, and I can't stop the wide, uncontrollable smile stretching across my face. Goodness... I can't believe it. Wenny actually, finally, let her guard down. She didn't pull away. She didn't freeze. She didn't glare like a warning sign. She stayed. She stayed with me. Her hand in mine, just like it should be, like it's supposed to be.

I still don't even understand why she avoided me for almost a whole week. A whole week of silence, of sharp looks that could slice through steel, of icy detachment that made it feel like I was shouting across an endless canyon with no chance of being heard. I tried everything, all the obvious things, all the hopeful things, and she bounced them off her like they were raindrops hitting stone. Eventually, I gave her space. It felt impossible to do nothing, to stop pushing, to wait, but... it worked. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she started letting little things slip, like the tiniest cracks in her fortress. I'm starting to understand her a little better. She just... does her own thing. Always. No amount of pleading or cheer or cute crafts will change that. I need to accept that sometimes trying is useless. Space. That's the key. Patience. Quiet hope. A little stubborn insanity, maybe.

Her hand is cold, just like I imagined it would be. Like touching a perfectly smooth marble sculpture, like frost on a winter morning. And it's thrilling in a way I didn't expect. I never thought I'd actually get to hold her hand. Not really. I've pictured it, dreamed it, whispered it to my plushies in the quiet of the night, imagining her hand in mine, imagining the rare, small moments where she might just allow someone to be close. But now, it's real. Right here, right now. And yes, it's exciting. My chest feels tight in that fluttery, can't-breathe sort of way, and I can't stop the little grin tugging at my lips.

But that excitement isn't even the main thing. Not really. So much has happened in these past few days. Moments, tiny but heavy, that have piled up inside me, pressing on my chest. I was worried, you know? Worried about her grumpy, impossible, silent self shutting me out forever. Worried that she wouldn't speak, wouldn't glance my way, wouldn't acknowledge me at all. And in the middle of that worry, everything else — school, friends, life — kept happening around me, and I've been holding all of it inside, trying to make sense of it, trying to keep my hope alive while also respecting her space.

And now? I'm walking here, holding her hand. And she might not care. She probably doesn't. That's fine. I don't even need her to care. But I need to feel it. I need to let it out. I need to let the world know, at least to myself, that she's here, that she hasn't pushed me away, that I'm not invisible to her anymore. It's a small victory, but it feels enormous. She's letting me in. Even if just a little.

I glance down at her hand again. Cold. Solid. Real. And I squeeze it gently, careful not to startle her. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't pull away. She just lets me hold it. My heart does this little somersault, and I feel the warmth spreading through me, not from her hand, but from the tiny, thrilling, unstoppable hope that maybe, just maybe, we're finally crossing that impossible gap between us.

I slam open the dorm door, practically skidding across the floor in my excitement. "GOSH, Wenny! I can't believe it! You have no idea, so much happened!" I squeak, bouncing on the balls of my feet like my entire body is vibrating with this uncontrollable energy. I don't even notice my backpack slipping slightly off my shoulder; it's like the world has shrunk to just me and her for a glorious, sparkling second. I spin toward her bed, guiding her gently with a hand on her elbow. "Sit! Sit down!" I insist, patting the mattress beside her like I'm inviting her into the most exclusive club of the century. She sits, stiff as always, that perfect, unreadable statue of Wednesday Addams, her eyes flicking just enough to let me know she's paying attention.

I plop down on the floor at her feet, cross-legged like some kind of overly dramatic storyteller, my hands twisting nervously in my lap as if the excitement might escape me if I don't hold it. My plushies stare back from the shelves, their little button eyes reflecting the fairy lights above. I can almost imagine them leaning forward, eager for the gossip. I grin at the thought, and then shake my head because I need to focus on her. Wenny. Right now. The girl who finally, after a week of icy avoidance, is actually here. Physically here. Hand in mine.

"So," I begin, bouncing slightly, trying to keep my words from tumbling over each other, "first of all... nothing happened with Ajax. Absolutely nothing. I am completely losing my mind over it. Totally, utterly, heart-in-my-throat losing it. He's not leaving hints! Not one! And I've been watching, waiting, analyzing every blink, every glance, every stupid little smirk, and NOTHING!" My hands flap in the air for emphasis, accidentally grazing her knee. She flinches ever so slightly — I swear it's imperceptible — and I grin wider because progress is progress, even if it's microscopic.

"Until..." I pause dramatically, reaching into the pocket of my uniform with trembling fingers, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure she can hear it. I curl my fingers around the folded piece of paper, crumpled slightly at the edges from me holding it too tightly, and I pull it out like it's the most precious treasure in the world. "THIS!" I squeak, practically squealing the word as if it might float across the room and land directly in her ears.

Her eyes remain stoic. Not a twitch. Not a flicker of curiosity. But I know she's listening. She always listens. And that, to me, is everything.

I press the paper closer to my face and start reading passages aloud, my voice trembling from a combination of nerves and sheer delight. His words are awkward, sweet, stumbling in places, but brilliant in others. He's confused. He doesn't understand my looks, or the little things I do, or how my heart does that flip whenever he's around. But he's trying. And he wants... clearance? Permission? I'm not even sure exactly, but the way he writes makes my chest feel like it's stuffed with fireworks about to explode.

"And look!" I squeak, bouncing slightly on my heels again, "MY NAME WITH A HEART!" I point at the carefully scrawled letters, tiny loops and swirls dancing at the end of the words. My grin spreads wider, almost splitting my face in half.

Her face doesn't change. Not a twitch. Not a hint. Eyes locked on me, body rigid as if carved from stone. But I don't care. I just keep going. "I had to look up some words!" I squeak, shaking my head in disbelief. "This guy has vocabulary! Like, actual, real vocabulary! Not just 'Hey, sup?' or 'You good?' He's thinking, Wenny. He's... he's trying. He's trying, and it's so... so... agh!" I throw my hands in the air, flopping dramatically onto the floor for emphasis, even though it's probably ridiculous.

She doesn't flinch. She doesn't roll her eyes, she doesn't sigh, she doesn't do anything except sit there, perfectly still, like she's studying me for some unknown experiment. But that's enough. That is so enough. Because she's still here. Still paying attention. Still letting me explode in front of her.

I sit back up, clutching the letter tightly against my chest like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. "I can't even, Wenny," I squeak again, voice higher than usual. "This is everything. Everything!" I wave the letter like she might somehow feel my excitement radiating off it. "He... he's... UGH!" I bury my face in my hands for a moment, then peek out through my fingers. "He's confused! He doesn't understand anything! But that's... that's perfect, in a way! And he likes me — me! — and writes all these words and and... oh gosh!"

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down, but it's useless. My heart is pounding, my palms are sweaty, and I feel like I might actually float off the ground from sheer exhilaration. I glance down at her once, almost hoping for some kind of reaction. A flicker of a smile. A single raised eyebrow. Anything. But no. Still stoic. Still Wednesday. And yet... she's still sitting there. Still present. And that, for me, is a win bigger than any letter could ever convey.

I curl my legs underneath me and shift slightly closer, lowering my voice to a whisper now, just for me, just for the thrill. "I don't even care if you don't get it, Wenny," I murmur, almost to myself. "I don't care if you don't care. I just... I had to say it. I had to show it. I had to let it out, because this is huge! And I'm holding it, and you're here, and I think... maybe... maybe one day you'll actually care. Maybe one day you'll smile at this, just a little. But for now... you're here. And that's enough for me. That's more than enough."

Her eyes remain on me, still unreadable, still perfectly rigid. But I can feel it. I can feel a tiny crack somewhere in that icy wall, something I can't see but that I know is there. And for once, I don't need her to say anything. I don't need words. I don't need a smile or a comment or a single acknowledgment. Because she's listening. She's here. And that... that is everything.

I shift a little closer until my knees brush the edge of her bed, the letter still crumpled delicately in my hand like some fragile artifact I'm terrified of tearing. Without even thinking, I lower myself down, curling up on the floor like it's the most natural thing in the world. My head finds its way onto her knees, a small sigh escaping me as if I've been holding my breath for days and can finally exhale. Her body tenses — of course it does — but she doesn't move away. She doesn't push me off. She just stays, still and cold and perfectly rigid, like a statue carved out of winter marble.

With my free hand, I trace a little line down her leg, not enough to tickle, just enough to feel the texture of her uniform beneath my fingertips. It's like drawing invisible shapes in the air — something to anchor me in this surreal moment. "I couldn't be happier, Wenny," I squeak softly, my voice slipping into something between a whisper and a giggle. The words tumble out of me in a little rush, but quieter this time, like a secret.

The letter stays clutched in my other hand, folded but trembling slightly because I'm still buzzing from it all — Ajax, the heart next to my name, the way everything feels so suddenly, ridiculously hopeful. My cheek rests against her knee, warm on one side from me, cool on the other from her. The contrast sends a little shiver down my spine, but I don't move. I don't dare move.

"I mean it," I murmur, my eyes fixed on the paper but seeing nothing but the blur of my own excitement. "I couldn't be happier. Not even if Ajax showed up at the door right now with a bouquet of glow-in-the-dark flowers and a full-on love confession. This—" I squeeze the paper gently "—and this moment, right here, with you not glaring or sighing or walking out... it's kind of perfect."

I tilt my head just slightly, enough to see her hands resting still in her lap, the faint rise and fall of her chest. She's so still, like she's trying not to breathe too loudly, but her presence is heavy and real and grounding. Her hair brushes her shoulder as she leans, almost imperceptibly, and for a second, just one second, I can almost pretend she's letting me stay there on purpose.

I trace another small pattern on her leg — a swirl, a line, a heart. My fingers feel warm against the cool fabric. "You don't have to say anything," I whisper, almost to myself. "I just needed to tell you. To... to be here. To feel like I'm not talking to a wall anymore." My heart pounds so hard it feels like she could probably feel it through her knee.

She stays quiet. Of course she does. But her silence isn't sharp this time. It isn't cutting. It feels different. Softer. Not approval, not warmth exactly, but something... less cold.

I close my eyes for a moment, pressing my cheek just a little more into her knee, the letter still clutched to my chest. "I couldn't be happier," I say again, softer now. And I mean it. Even if she never says a word, even if she never gives me anything back, this moment is mine. This moment is real.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟMy pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

♱ ˖ ࣪ ★ Wednesday POV ♱ ˖ ࣪ ★

I wrote it. Of course I did. In that suffocating week of silence, when her chatter finally stilled and left me alone with nothing but the unbearable sound of my own thoughts, I had no other choice. They were too loud, too insistent, crawling like maggots through my skull, demanding an outlet. So I gave them one. I let them spill out in ink, black and unrelenting, across the page. Not a love letter. The very idea would make me retch. No, it was a manifesto of irritation, a confession of torment, an autopsy report written against her endless, saccharine presence. Every stroke of my pen bled frustration. Every carefully chosen word was meant as a scalpel, cutting cleanly into the soft, cloying mass of her cheer.

Yet she didn't recognize it. That fact alone was almost laughable. She couldn't even decipher that the words had been born of me, that they carried the unmistakable scent of my hand — precise, deliberate, cruel. To her, it was nothing more than a vague curiosity, a collection of words that floated past her, landing on the wrong suspect. Ajax. She believed Ajax had written it. The sheer insult burns deeper than any wound I've ever inflicted on myself. To be compared to him — Ajax, whose brain seems to function with all the grace of a half-squeezed sponge, whose vocabulary rarely extends beyond the mental range of a barn animal — is an affront of the highest order. That she could look at my carefully lacerated phrases, my sharpened syllables, and think they could have spilled from his fumbling, inarticulate mind, is enough to make me question not my work, but her perception entirely.

Perhaps that's the part that unsettles me most. My words are not easily mistaken. They are daggers, dipped in venom, aimed precisely where they will cause the most exquisite pain. His words — when he manages to form any at all — are the verbal equivalent of slipping on a wet floor: clumsy, unintentional, stupid. To think that my venom could be mistaken for his accident is unbearable. It diminishes me. It makes me feel... ordinary. I despise the thought.

And yet, there is a part of me that hesitates. Should I tell her the truth? Should I carve open this misconception and let her see the raw, throbbing anger that birthed the words she now clings to with such misplaced wonder? It would be so easy. A single confession, a single correction, and she would know it was me. She would see that every syllable was directed at her — her voice, her colors, her persistence, her relentless ability to exist in my space like ivy climbing through cracks in stone.

But no. I hesitate. I let her drown in her conviction that Ajax, of all people, could string together more than a grunt and a misplaced verb. Let her cling to that delusion. Let her think her affections are wasted on a boy who couldn't identify irony if it split him open and arranged his entrails into the letters of the word. My silence is sharper than any truth I could offer her. Silence is its own cruelty, and I am nothing if not merciless.

Still... somewhere in the recess of my mind, the thought lingers, like a splinter too deep to pull free: she read my words. She held them. She let them pass through her eyes, through her mind, and she carried them with her — even if she did not know their origin. There is a strange intimacy in that, one I did not intend, and cannot easily erase. It unsettles me. I hate that it does.

Her head resting on my knee is not a comfort. It is an invasion, a trespass. It isn't helping my concentration or my control; it's magnifying the static in my skull. Frustration rises like a tide at high moon — slow but unstoppable — fed by three currents at once: her behavior, her blithe ignorance of the letter's origin, and my own shameful inertia in not pushing her away. I am too awake to pretend I don't feel her weight. Too aware to ignore the way she's chosen me of all people to collapse against. And yet, I don't move. I don't shove her off. I simply sit there, rigid as a corpse propped upright in its coffin, letting her do this to me. That is, in truth, the worst part. Not her actions. Not her delusions. My weakness. My refusal to sever this grotesque tableau.

Her hair — pale gold streaked with pastel streaks, as if each lock has been dipped in sunlight and sugar — spills across my knee. It smells faintly of something sweet and artificial, a candy-store perfume that is as foreign to me as kindness. The strands brush against my skin in a way that is both soft and abrasive, like the tickle of a spider's web across a wound. I stare down at it with the clinical detachment of an executioner studying the neck on the block. Her hand, meanwhile, moves. Tracing idle lines on my leg. Patterns I don't want to decipher. Invisible glyphs drawn into my skin with her fingertip, warm and light as a match before it catches flame.

I have to choke down a sound. A scream. A hiss. A sob. I don't know which it would be if it escaped. My jaw locks. My throat tightens. Everything in me compresses into a small, hard knot as I force my face to remain stoic — the marble mask I've practiced since childhood, polished smooth, unbreakable. But inside, something is clawing at the surface. I feel as though I am dying in miniature, cell by cell, breath by breath, under the weight of her softness.

Why. The word beats against the inside of my skull with each pulse of blood. Why is she doing this? Why now, why me? It is a form of torture more refined than anything my ancestors ever devised. A slow, exquisite unmaking of my defenses, administered with blond hair and a hand drawing circles instead of ropes and knives. She would never do this with Ajax. She mocks Ajax, teases him, leaves him twisting in his own confusion. She saves her smiles for me. She saves this softness for me. And I hate it. Or at least, I should.

My hands curl into fists on my lap. My nails bite into my palms, leaving little crescents, tiny half-moons of self-discipline. I imagine pushing her off me — a clean, decisive gesture, like closing a book or snapping a neck. But I don't. I sit there, every muscle stiff and screaming, and let her remain where she is, as though I am some kind of anchor she's chosen to tie herself to. The effort it takes to stay still is monumental. It is more draining than combat, more exhausting than a night of writing. It is shameful.

She does not know what she's doing to me. She cannot. She thinks this is innocent. Comfort. Friendship. She thinks I am cold marble and she is warmth, and that some of her heat might seep into me if she leans long enough. She doesn't realize she's burning me alive.

I finally, or perhaps reluctantly, feel the weight of her head lift from my knee. The loss of her warmth is immediate and sharp, like a phantom limb — though it brings no relief. I have been bracing myself for it, rehearsing my first breath of freedom in my mind, and yet when it happens, it feels less like a reprieve and more like a change in tempo before the next strike of the blade.

"God, Wenny, I almost forgot! I got you a thing." Her voice slices through the stillness, that infuriating squeak of excitement, bright and unrestrained. She hops up as though spring-loaded, the soft thuds of her feet across the floor sounding far louder than they should. She's moving with the sort of energy that has always made my skin crawl, an energy that seems to multiply in confined spaces. A few quick steps, almost little jumps of anticipation, and she's halfway to the other side of the room, her back a blur of color — hair, sweater, skirt, all in hues so painfully vivid they make my eyes ache.

She's speaking as she moves, words spilling out in a torrent that I barely bother to register at first, but they press against me nonetheless. "I got it just today 'cause I was so worried about you not talking to me lately..." Her voice dips, then rises again like a skipping record, each note designed to provoke some kind of reaction. "And gosh, about that, you so have to tell me my... like it was so random but, anyway... HERE!"

She whirls around to face me. The room tilts. My pulse ticks once, heavy and deliberate, before resuming its rhythm. Her eyes — those impossibly large, blue eyes — are fixed on me with that same look. That look. Sickening and confusing in equal measure. A look that seems to blur affection and bewilderment, teasing and sincerity, into something I cannot classify, something I despise because I cannot name it.

I lower my eyes, instinctively, to whatever she's holding in her hands. And then I stop breathing.

A bouquet.

A black bouquet.

Dried dark flowers, brittle and silent as bone. And nestled among them — black dahlias.

Black dahlias. My fingers twitch against my knee, a subtle, involuntary movement. She could not know. I have never mentioned them. Not once. Not to her, not to anyone here. My tastes are my own; they are not to be shared, not to be guessed, certainly not to be understood. Yet there they are, a cluster of them in her hands, their dark velvet petals like tiny voids, the edges curling slightly as though scorched.

How?

The question clangs through my mind like an iron bell, echoing, reverberating. How would she know they are my favorites? How could she possibly know, when I've gone to such lengths to keep everything about myself locked and bolted? Did she stumble across the knowledge by accident? Did she guess? Or — and this thought chills me more than it should — has she been observing me far more closely than I realized, parsing my silences, decoding me like one of her silly crossword puzzles?

The bouquet seems heavier than it should in her small hands. The darkness of it is at war with the riot of color she always wears, like a patch of night sewn into daylight. It doesn't belong with her. It belongs here, on my side of the room, in my world of shadows and sharp edges.

Her eyes flick up to mine again. Wide, expectant, glowing with a strange combination of nerves and pride, like a child waiting for a verdict. She's smiling, of course. She's always smiling. But there's something behind the smile now, a quiver of uncertainty she probably thinks she's hidden.

I stare at the bouquet, at her, back at the bouquet. The smell of dried petals rises faintly, earthy and sweet and decaying all at once, like a memory of a funeral carried on the air. My chest feels tight, not with warmth — that would be too human — but with something heavier. Something like a weight pressing down from the inside.

This is not a gift that can be explained away by impulse. This is not pastel jewelry or a trinket from a campus shop. This is deliberate. This is precise. This is personal.

And I don't know what to do with it.

With quick, ungraceful strides she closes the distance between us again. I do not move, though every nerve in my body urges me to retreat, to find even a fraction of space between us. She doesn't allow it. The bouquet is suddenly pushed into my hands with a force that almost makes me stumble. For a moment, I consider letting it fall to the floor — watching it shatter into brittle pieces of stem and petal, like so many corpses tossed into the earth. But I don't. My fingers, treacherous, curl around it instead.

Her touch lingers. Her warm fingers brush deliberately against mine, caressing the ridges of my knuckles as though her intention is not merely to give, but to bind. The heat of her skin sears into me, spreading up my hands, lodging itself into my wrists like an infection. I hate the sensation. I hate it more because it lingers even after her hand slips away, as if her fingerprints have been branded into my flesh.

I stare down at the bouquet. Its fragrance rises — dry, subtle, yet strangely comforting. The faint, powdery scent of dahlias cuts through the stale air of the dormitory, winding its way into my nose, into my head, into places I don't want it to reach. I don't welcome comfort. It makes me weak. It gnaws at the edges of my resolve, unpicking all the careful knots I've tied to keep myself contained.

"I hope you like it, Wenny," she chirps. My name — mutilated again. A knife dulled against a whetstone. Her tone is soft, uncertain at the edges but still alight with that irrepressible brightness. "I wasn't sure on what flowers to get, but then I remembered your perfume. I always smelled dahlias in it, sooo... cool werewolf abilities, am I right?"

She chuckles, light and self-satisfied, as if she's just revealed some great detective's trick.

I keep my face perfectly stoic, as I always do. Marble cannot betray cracks, or it ceases to be marble. But my eyes betray me for half a second, flicking to hers with something that might have been bewilderment. Her words circle in my mind like vultures: she noticed. She remembered. She connected.

The others never notice. Not my classmates, not the professors, not even my family who thrive on detail and shadow. Yet she does. She pays attention to things I thought invisible. She smells my perfume and pulls dahlias out of it like some fortune-teller divining truths from smoke. And now I'm standing here with the evidence in my hands, black petals and dried stems, her intuition wrapped in paper and ribbon.

I should crush it. Break it in half, let the petals fall in mockery of her effort. But instead I stand, bouquet held stiffly in my hands, my face carved into its usual mask while inside something twists and writhes like a creature I cannot kill. Bewilderment. Confusion. And worst of all, the faintest, most insidious trace of gratitude.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟI hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Enid POV °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

God, I couldn't be happier. Like, really, couldn't. It feels weird even writing that down in my head — thinking it, saying it, living it. Me and Wenny... we're back as friends. Or, well, as close to "friends" as Wednesday Addams can probably manage without combusting or hexing me in my sleep. But still, it's something. It's huge. And the things with me and Ajax? Oh, don't even get me started. They're moving... veeeery slowly. Like, slow-motion slow. Like a snail crawling uphill through molasses in January. But hey, slow is still something, right? It's progress. It's hope. It's me, not completely losing my mind for once.

Wenny should honestly be made a saint. Like, canonized right now. Forget martyrs, forget miracles — just the fact that she's sat through me every single day without setting me on fire deserves a stained-glass window in some creepy gothic cathedral somewhere. My diary is already overflowing with words about her — no exaggeration. Pages and pages of my handwriting, my feelings, my frustrations, my squeals, my dreams. It's like my diary turned into a shrine to the slow, impossible project of befriending the most unfriendable girl on Earth.

And yet... she keeps listening to me. Somehow. I don't know how she does it. How she sits there with that perfectly straight back, that unreadable face, those eyes like bottomless wells of black coffee, and just listens. Her ears must be overflowing with my words by now. Like little rivers pouring into her head, my chatter bouncing around like pinballs. Any normal person would've screamed by now, or at least shoved me out the window. But her? Nothing. Not a word. Not a sigh.

And that's how I know — how I know — I've gained a soft spot in her cold, black heart. It's there. It's tiny, sure, but it's there. She doesn't tell me to shut up anymore. She doesn't throw those dagger-sharp insults at me like she used to. She just... lets me talk. Lets me be. And that's huge. That's everything.

I flop back on my bed sometimes after talking to her, staring up at the ceiling, thinking, Did that actually just happen? Did she really let me ramble for an hour about Ajax's new vocabulary words without making a single cutting remark? And every time, the answer is yes. Yes, she did. Yes, she's still here. Yes, she's still letting me in, inch by inch. And it feels like victory. Not a loud, confetti-throwing victory. A quiet one. A private one. The kind you keep in your chest and smile about when no one's looking.

I'm lying on my stomach on my bed, chin propped up on my palms, legs kicking idly behind me as I watch her from across the room. Wednesday sits at her desk, back perfectly straight, hair falling like ink over her shoulders, the lamplight catching on her pale skin. Her fingers move across the keys of her typewriter with the same rhythm as a metronome — click-clack, click-clack, click-clack — like she's punching holes into the silence. Every sound is so sharp and crisp it feels like it's rattling inside my skull. My poor ears honestly want to curl up and die. But I don't say anything. Not today.

I just keep my eyes on her. She's been weirdly decent with me lately — not warm, obviously, but not scathing either. No glares, no cutting remarks. And because she's been decent, I'm trying to be decent back. No complaining about the typewriter, no whining about the cello at midnight. Just... sitting here, soaking her in. She looks so completely focused, like the whole world outside her page doesn't exist. Her shoulders don't slump. Her braid doesn't move. It's like watching a statue breathe.

I let out a sigh and tilt my head, cheek resting against my palm. The question slips out before I can catch it. "Ugh, Wenny, why are you so smart?"

The noise stops immediately. Dead silence. The kind of silence that makes my heart skip. She turns her head slowly, braid swinging, dark eyes pinning me in place like a bug under glass.

"Excuse me?" she says, voice cold and flat, like an icicle falling from a roof.

I blink, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Yea, like..." I roll onto my back and throw my arm over my eyes dramatically. "Ugh, you are just so smart. Diligent. Just... ugh, perfect in all. HOW?" My voice cracks at the end into a half-whine, half-groan.

It was all meant as a compliment — obviously. But it's true too. She's so much. She's just... so much. How does she do it? How does she get up every day and walk around like the world is something she's already solved? How does she type for hours without losing focus, play the cello like it's second nature, never break a sweat over anything?

Her face stays perfectly stoic. Her eyes don't blink. She doesn't answer. Just sits there, quiet, like my words bounced off her black armor and fell to the floor unheard.

"Yea, ugh, okay," I mumble, rolling onto my stomach again to peek at her, "no need to answer. You're just perfect 'cuz you are." The words come out as a whine, but I mean them. Every bit of them.

I push myself up off the bed and smooth my skirt out, the soft fabric brushing against my knees. My feet make little soft sounds on the floor as I pad across the room toward her. She doesn't move. She doesn't flinch. She just watches me approach, eyes following me like she's trying to decide if I'm about to touch something she'll have to sterilize later.

The closer I get, the more I can smell her ink, that faint metallic tang of the typewriter, the slightly cooler air on her side of the room. My pastel fairy lights flicker and glow against her shadows, making the room look like two worlds glued together.

"Seriously, though," I say, my voice soft but still a little whiny, "how do you do it? You sit here for hours typing like it's nothing. You just... never stop."

She doesn't answer. Her face is still, unreadable, like a mask.

I sigh, stopping just beside her chair, my eyes flicking from her pale hands to the sheet of paper in the typewriter. The letters are perfect. Straight. No smudges. It's so obviously her — deliberate, precise, untouchable.

I tilt my head, letting a small smile slip across my lips. "Ugh, you're impossible, you know that? But you're also kinda amazing."

She doesn't look up. She doesn't say anything. But she doesn't tell me to shut up either. And somehow, that tiny, quiet nothing feels like the biggest win I've had all week.

With a couple of strides, I push myself off my bed and cross the room before my brain can talk me out of it. The air on her side always feels different — cooler, heavier, like it's been filtered through some invisible cloud of gloom. I stop right in front of her desk, right in front of her, and for a second, I just... look. Wednesday Addams, queen of mystery and permanent scowls, sitting there looking like she was carved out of pale marble and given the faintest pulse just for dramatic flair.

I lean forward slightly, the faint scent of her shampoo — something clean and crisp, almost old-fashioned — drifting up to meet me. My fingers, before I even register what they're doing, reach out to touch one of her braids. It's smooth and heavy, like silk dipped in night. I twirl the end between my fingers for half a heartbeat before realizing what I've done and blurting out the first thing that pops into my head.

"Ugh, can I borrow your shampoo or something?" I say, half whining, half breathless, my words tumbling over each other in a rush. "Your hair is just amazing, like seriously, how is it so shiny and perfect? Mine's over here rebelling against gravity, and yours looks like it belongs in some gothic shampoo commercial!"

She doesn't even move. Just sits there, frozen in that statue-perfect way of hers, eyes fixed on me like she's trying to decide whether I'm serious or delirious. My fingers drop away from her braid as I keep rambling because, honestly, stopping isn't my strong suit.

"I mean, I'm gonna see Ajax later, and—ugh—he asked me out earlier when we were out, and I just—ugh, I need to look perfect, and your hair, it's just so—"

"Fine."

The word cuts through my voice like a knife. Sharp, clipped, exactly two syllables long but somehow holding enough weight to make me freeze. Her tone is stoic — a little harsher than usual, but not cruel. Just... Wednesday.

For a split second, I blink at her, my mouth hanging open mid-word. And then it hits me.

"Oh my god. Thanks, Wenny! Thanks, thanks, you are just so amazing!" The excitement rushes through me like a sugar high, and before I can stop myself, I'm bouncing on my heels. "I promise I won't waste too much! I'll even replace it with one that smells like lavender or something nice and—okay okay I'll stop talking!"

She doesn't respond, of course. She just blinks once, slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable as ever. But I swear — swear — there's a tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth. The kind of microscopic movement that only someone obsessed with decoding her like I am would notice.

Still grinning like an idiot, I spin on my heel and head straight toward my side of the room, practically skipping as I go. My closet bursts open in a riot of color — pastels, sequins, sparkles. I pull out half my wardrobe in five seconds flat, the sound of hangers clinking like a cheerful little symphony.

My heart is pounding. Ajax asked me out. Wenny lent me her shampoo. And for once, everything feels like it's working.

Behind me, I can hear the soft click-clack of her typewriter again, steady and precise. The world's tiniest acknowledgment that life has resumed its usual rhythm — her in her shadows, me in my colors — perfectly mismatched, perfectly us.

"If he breaks your heart, I'll nailgun his."
She says it flat, like it's a weather report. Classic Wednesday — deadly, blunt, and somehow tender under all that black. I stand there for a second, grinning so hard my cheeks ache because of course she'd threaten bodily harm on my behalf; it's her version of care.

"Y-yes, yes, Wenny, thanks," I say, voice all bubbly and incredulous, and then I laugh because honestly, who else would make a murder threat sound like a promise of friendship? "But there will be no need. Zero need." I wave my hands like I'm trying to catch the excitement in the air and keep it from exploding.

I head for the bathroom on light, bouncing feet because my heart's doing somersaults and I can't stand still. Halfway there I spin and call back over my shoulder, "Oh, and maybe I could say a few words about you and Xavier to Ajax — you know, they are—" and then she cuts me off, like she always does, with that perfectly cold little command. "No. Move. I want quiet."

Stoic. Short. Final. The way she says it would be terrifying if it weren't starting to feel comfortingly familiar. I can't help a little laugh that escapes me as I shrug. "Okay, okay, quiet it is," I mutter, because honestly, her "no" has this weirdly soothing authority.

I shut the bathroom door and stand under the warm spray for a minute, letting the steam blur the world and thinking about how absurd my life is—Ajax asked me out, Wednesday threatened to nailgun his head off, and now I'm sneaking into her shampoo like it's a secret relic. I grin, shake my head, and start getting ready, humming a tiny, off-key tune as I go.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟNo man has ever loved me like you do  ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

♱ ˖ ࣪ ★ Wednesday POV ♱ ˖ ࣪ ★

Her and her stupid date, her and her stupid compliments. As I already figured, once she mentioned him asking her out, I already understood it wouldn't end well—not because of her, but because he is an idiot. There she is, sobbing, screaming, claws out, throwing herself into theatrics that would be almost impressive if they weren't so absurd. God, she is dramatic. I can't bring myself to scold her. My mind, as always, replays in an endless loop her comments and compliments to me, her words vibrating in my skull like a nerve exposed. Stupid, damn werewolf.

She sulks in her bed now, a mound of pink and pastel fur, claws retracted but misery still radiating from her, palpable in the small dorm room. I pull on my black coat, the fabric heavy and stiff, comforting in its own way, like armor against the chaos she radiates. I feel her red-rimmed eyes on me, tracking every movement, burning into my back as I adjust my sleeves.

"Where are you going, Wenny?" she asks softly, a little shaky, her voice still carrying remnants of earlier hysteria, though now tempered with curiosity.

"Out. I had a vision. It might be referred to the Hyde. Coming?" I speak coldly, detached. The invitation is not kindness. It is necessity. Werewolf strength might be useful. Nothing more.

"Yes, yes, yes, Wenny! A girls' night out, and we can so wear our snoods!" She leaps up, excitement radiating off her in waves, practically bouncing across the floor. She throws on her pink coat with careless energy, then hands me my black snood—the one she made. Damn it. I thought she would have forgotten about it in the weeks I avoided her. But no. She was faster than me, of course, always faster. She has anticipated my silence and circumvented it with her unstoppable energy.

I grasp the snood in my hands, feeling the soft wool against my fingers. The small warmth it radiates is irritating, invasive, unwanted—but I allow it to stay. She watches me with wide eyes, expectant, triumphant, as if victory is a game and I am the prize she has finally claimed. I do not respond. I do not acknowledge. I simply adjust my coat and the snood, sliding it over my head with deliberate slowness, keeping my expression stoic, carved, impenetrable. Inside, my mind is a storm, spiraling between irritation, disbelief, and the faintest hint of... something I refuse to name.

Even as she chatters beside me, her energy like a visible pulse through the dorm, I remain outwardly immovable, inwardly calculating, noting every gesture, every twitch of her fingers, every gleam in her ridiculous, oversized eyes. She is everywhere, and yet I follow silently, a shadow in motion, her brightness pressing against the edges of my awareness.

Her hand brushes mine as I step forward, faint and fleeting, like a spark threatening fire. I do not recoil. I do not acknowledge it. But the sensation lodges itself in my awareness, an intrusion I cannot permit but cannot fully dismiss. She is unrelenting, unstoppable, a force of nature wrapped in pink and sweetness. And I endure it because I must. Because the vision, the Hyde, and the unspoken rules of survival demand it. And because, however reluctantly, she has become inextricable from the moment at hand, from this night, from this path we walk together.

We are in the car, the low hum of the engine cutting through the silence like a blade through thick fog. Me, her, and... Tyler. Yes, I might have conveniently forgotten to mention that he'd be joining us, but a ride was necessary, and in the end, practicality outweighs pleasantries. The faint frown creasing Enid's usually radiant face tells me everything I need to know. Her shoulders are tense, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm against her knee, and her expression is far from the usual pink-tinted delight she insists on wearing like armor. She's uncomfortable, unhappy, unamused — good. A little taste of her own medicine won't hurt.

The night outside is dense, almost suffocating, shadows of trees passing by like skeletal silhouettes as Tyler drives. The car smells faintly of fuel and cheap air freshener, the kind that tries too hard to mask decay. The radio crackles quietly with some song I don't know — something upbeat, likely for Enid's sake — and it only worsens the headache forming behind my temples.

Enid sits beside me in the backseat, pressed against the door, her arms crossed. She's quiet, which is a rarity so shocking that I almost question whether she's plotting something. Her reflection in the glass flickers between the colors of passing streetlights — pale skin, golden hair, that faint scowl she can't quite suppress. I can feel her irritation radiating off her like static. She probably thinks I'm cruel for not telling her Tyler would be here. She's right. I am.

Tyler, of course, hums softly to himself in the front seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel in that annoyingly casual way he thinks looks confident. His eyes dart occasionally to the rear-view mirror, likely checking on Enid. Or me. Either option disgusts me equally. The silence stretches on, thick, heavy, and uncomfortable, broken only by the rhythmic sound of tires grinding against gravel.

The town of Jericho fades behind us, replaced by empty fields and dense, crooked woods. The road narrows, darkens, and the moon above is a pale, thin thing — more of a scar in the sky than a light. I can feel the air shifting, colder now, the kind of cold that hints at something rotten beneath the surface. We're close.

Finally, the car slows to a crawl. The headlights slice through the dark, revealing the outline of a house — decrepit, sagging beneath its own weight, as though the earth itself is trying to swallow it whole. Paint peels off its walls like dead skin; the roof looks one storm away from collapse. The air around it smells of damp wood, decay, and stillness.

Enid lets out a small, almost nervous laugh beside me. "Wow, spooky. Totally your vibe, Wenny." She's trying to sound lighthearted, but I hear the unease beneath her voice.

I don't reply. I simply watch the house grow larger in the windshield, my thoughts already ahead, calculating, dissecting. When the car finally stops, the headlights illuminate the front door — half-open, hanging crookedly on rusted hinges.

I open my door without a word. The air outside hits me immediately — cold, wet, thick with the scent of rot and moss. The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I step out. Behind me, I hear Enid doing the same, though with less enthusiasm, her coat brushing softly against the car as she moves.

"Tyler," I say, turning slightly toward him. My tone is even, precise, sharp enough to leave no room for questions. "Wait here by the car. Enid and I will go inspect the house."

He blinks, confused, already beginning to protest. "Wait, what? You're just—"

But I've already turned away, my attention fixed on the looming silhouette before us. The wind rustles through the dead grass, and for a moment, the house seems to breathe.

Enid steps up beside me, her hands shoved into her coat pockets, her breath visible in the cold air. I can sense her discomfort, her hesitation, the tension rolling off her in waves. Yet she doesn't speak. Maybe she's learning.

Together, we start toward the house — her hesitant, me deliberate — the crunch of gravel beneath our steps the only sound breaking the stillness of the night.

I can feel Enid a bit freaked out — her body language says it all. She thought this was going to be a girls' night out, not a descent into a rotting house on the outskirts of Jericho, where the air itself seems to whisper and shiver with something ancient. Her optimism always borders on self-delusion. She must have imagined a cozy outing, something absurdly pink and cheerful, maybe a stroll through town and an exchange of meaningless gossip. Instead, she's here, standing beside me, in front of a decrepit shell of wood and shadow that even the moonlight refuses to touch.

Her breathing is shallow as she glances up at the sagging porch, her claws nervously grazing her coat sleeves. The boards creak under her hesitant steps. I don't need to see her face to know that her wide blue eyes are darting across every corner of the darkness, searching for comfort and finding none. Her hand brushes the door — it's locked, of course — and before I can speak, she pushes. Her werewolf strength makes the old frame shudder and crack, the lock giving way with a loud metallic groan.

I don't say a word. My face remains composed, stoic, though somewhere beneath the surface, a faint, cold amusement curls. Even in her fear, she is useful. There's something almost entertaining about watching her struggle to balance courage with panic.

We step inside.

The smell hits first — damp rot, mold, the faint metallic tang of rust and decay. The air feels thick, almost physical, pressing against my skin like a heavy, invisible fog. Dust swirls lazily in the faint light seeping through shattered windows. The house feels alive in a way only the long-dead do — a mausoleum of whispers and memories better left untouched.

Our footsteps echo faintly as we move deeper. The floorboards groan, as though complaining about being disturbed after decades of silence. Enid's breathing grows louder; I can practically hear the tremor in her chest. She stays close behind me, her fear radiating like heat. Every few steps she glances at the ceiling, or the walls, or the darkness itself — as if it might move. I don't blame her. It feels like it could.

We reach the basement door. The hinges shriek when I push it open, a sound that grates against the silence like a blade against bone. I descend first, my boots landing softly on the cold stone below. Enid hesitates, of course, before following, the dim glow of her phone flashlight flickering weakly against the darkness.

The air down here is different — colder, denser, full of the scent of damp earth and something older. I sweep the light across the walls. Symbols, carved crudely into the wood and stone. Some broken glass, metal tools, an old crate overturned and shattered. There's history here — and it's violent.

Enid lingers behind me, trying to make herself smaller. I can sense her fear, but my mind is elsewhere — focused, cataloging every detail, every potential clue that could lead me closer to the Hyde. I can almost feel the trail pulsing through the house, as though the walls themselves are breathing out its name. I can practically taste discovery on my tongue.

And then — a sound.

A dull thud. Then another. Wood snapping, something heavy shifting in the distance. The air vibrates faintly with each impact. Enid flinches violently behind me, her flashlight trembling in her grip. I feel my muscles tense, my senses sharpen. The noise grows louder, closer — a scraping, dragging resonance that crawls along the edges of hearing until it becomes unmistakably alive.

The roar follows — deep, guttural, monstrous. It rips through the silence, makes the ground tremble beneath our feet.

Enid gasps, stumbling backward. The fear radiating off her now is palpable, like static in the air. My flashlight flickers, the beam slicing briefly through the dark — just enough to catch movement. A flash of pale flesh. The glint of something wet. A shape too large, too distorted to be human. The Hyde.

It's here.

My pulse jumps — not from fear, but from something dangerously close to excitement. My mind starts dissecting everything — the tone of the roar, the speed of the movement, the proximity. Every sound, every shadow becomes a piece of data. I should move. I should escape. But I don't. I just stare, trying to memorize it all.

"WENNY, LET'S GO!" Enid screams, her voice raw with panic.

Her words snap me back, but I don't respond. I'm still watching, calculating, wondering if I can see more — if I can understand more. There's a strange pull, like the moment before touching a flame. Every rational thought tells me to leave, but curiosity — obsession — holds me still.

"Wenny!" she yells again, louder this time, desperation shaking her voice.

Before I can react, she's already moving. Her hand finds my arm — claws half out, grip unrelenting. She yanks me backward with the strength of ten humans, dragging me toward the narrow basement window. The Hyde's growls echo again, closer, the sound scraping across the walls like claws. Dust falls from the ceiling as something upstairs crashes violently.

Enid doesn't wait for instructions. She forces the small window open with a crack of wood, shoving it wide enough for me to fit through. Her panic is a tangible force now, heavy and frantic. She's muttering under her breath, half-prayers, half-pleas, her usual brightness replaced by raw fear.

The roar sounds again, deafening, as something massive slams into the far wall. My hair moves with the gust of displaced air. She doesn't hesitate — she grabs me, pushes me toward the window with inhuman strength.

I don't resist. I let her.

The cold night air hits my face as I'm pulled halfway through, the stale scent of the house replaced by the sharp chill outside.

I didn't want to leave yet. I wasn't ready to. The rational part of my mind screamed to retreat, but curiosity — my oldest, most dangerous companion — refused to obey. I wanted to see it. To examine it, document it, study the aberration that had haunted my thoughts for weeks. To leave now felt like a personal failure, an unfinished chapter in a macabre book I'd been forced to read.

But Enid's distress was overwhelming. It rolled off her in waves so strong it almost dulled my senses. Her breathing came in short, ragged gasps as she clung to my arm, her claws pricking through the fabric of my sleeve. There was no reasoning with her; fear had dissolved whatever little logic she possessed.

Reluctantly, I gave in to her panic. I helped her reach the window, my movements mechanical, efficient. Her trembling hands pushed against the frame, forcing it open wider. The air outside seeped in — cold, sharp, clean — a stark contrast to the heavy stench of decay that hung inside. I could hear the Hyde's movements now, heavier, faster, echoing through the basement's hollow dark. Each thud reverberated through my bones.

As soon as Enid scrambled out into the night, the beast entered the basement.

The roar was deafening — a wet, guttural noise that made the very walls vibrate. Dust cascaded from the ceiling like rain. My body moved before my thoughts caught up, pure instinct taking over. I grabbed the window ledge, pushing myself up as Enid's hands reached back in, claws catching my coat sleeve. Her strength, amplified by panic, was almost painful.

"Come on, Wenny!" she screamed, her voice breaking.

I could see the Hyde's silhouette now — its massive form emerging from the shadows, its outline sharp and distorted in the faint light. Its eyes caught the dim glow, twin orbs of feral brightness locking onto me. For a fraction of a second, our gazes met — a grotesque communion between predator and observer. It was glorious. Terrifying. Beautiful.

Then Enid pulled me out.

Her force sent me tumbling into the cold grass outside, the air knocked out of me as I hit the ground. I heard the wood behind us splinter as the Hyde's claws raked against the frame, reaching, grabbing for what it couldn't have. One of those claws grazed my leg — just barely — but enough to tear through the fabric of my tights and slice skin. A hot sting followed, sharp but manageable.

And then it was over.

The sound of the beast faded, muffled by distance and the thickness of the night. Only the echo of its roar lingered, woven into the wind. Enid's breathing was loud beside me — erratic, shallow, frantic.

She turned toward me, and for a moment, I thought she might faint. Her eyes were wide, shining with fear, locked on the faint line of blood trickling down my leg.

"Wenny— your leg— oh god, you're hurt!" she stammered, her voice trembling with panic.

I sat up slowly, brushing the dirt from my coat, entirely unbothered. "Enid, calm down. I've seen worse."

The words came out flat, cold, but steady. She didn't seem to hear them, too consumed by her own hysteria. Her hands fluttered uselessly near my leg, her claws twitching as if she didn't know whether to help or collapse. Her face was a portrait of pure distress — eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips parted in shallow breaths.

I sighed. The noise was soft, almost imperceptible. I reached out and caught her face in my hands, forcing her gaze up to meet mine. My fingers were cold against her skin, and I could feel her trembling under my touch. Her eyes locked with mine — wild blue to unyielding black — and I let silence fill the space between us until I knew she was breathing properly again.

"Calm down," I said again, slower this time, my tone like ice sliding over stone.

Her lips quivered. She nodded faintly, still shaken but starting to steady. I could feel the warmth of her skin against my palms — too soft, too alive, too her. It sent a disquieting spark through me, something I refused to name.

Realization struck me like cold water. I was still holding her.

I withdrew immediately, my hands snapping back as if burned. My composure returned, as did the familiar disgust at my own weakness. I muttered under my breath, barely audible — "Idiot."

The word wasn't for her. Not entirely.

She didn't seem to notice. She was still calming down, still trembling slightly, her eyes darting between me and the broken window behind us. I sat there, silent, watching her, forcing my pulse to slow, forcing my thoughts into order. The scratch on my leg stung lightly, but it was nothing compared to the irritation gnawing at my mind — not from pain, but from the unfamiliarity of what had just happened.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟCarnations you had thought were roses, that's us ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:· Enid POV °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:·

Okay, lesson learned — no more girls' nights with Wednesday Addams. Ever. I mean it this time. I don't care if she bats those blank eyes at me or says it's "research." I'm done. Finished. Finito.

Not only was Tyler there — and last I checked, he is so not a girl — but somehow "girls' night" turned into "let's break into an abandoned house and nearly get murdered." I should've known, right? With Wednesday, it's never just popcorn, facials, and bad rom-coms. No. With her, it's always monsters, blood, and trauma.

One minute we're standing in this creepy, dust-covered hallway that smells like wet wood and old secrets, and the next—BAM!—this big, slimy, absolutely hideous creature jumps out of nowhere. I swear it had, like, two greasy hairs on its head and teeth that looked like they hadn't seen a toothbrush since the Stone Age. My heart almost burst out of my chest, and I screamed so loud I'm pretty sure the windows rattled. And Wednesday? She just stood there. Completely still, staring that thing down like she was at some kind of polite dinner party.

"Wednesday, MOVE!" I shrieked, tugging on her arm because, hello, survival instincts?! She refused. I had to drag her out—literally drag her, because apparently fear doesn't exist in her dictionary.

And then, because the universe clearly enjoys torturing me, the monster swiped at us, and her leg—her leg—got caught. There was blood. Real, dark, terrifying blood, running down her pale skin. I thought I was going to faint right there. I actually saw stars for a second. But did she even flinch? Nope. She just looked at it like it was an inconvenient paper cut.

After what felt like an hour of me panicking and her insisting she could "walk it off," I finally managed to force her—yes, physically force her—to the nurse's office. I practically dragged her across the courtyard while she complained the whole way that I was being "dramatic." Dramatic! As if worrying about your best friend's leg falling off is dramatic!

And then, get this, when we finally sit down and the nurse starts wrapping her leg, Wednesday looks at me—completely expressionless, like she's carved out of marble—and says, "You're being childish."

CHILDISH.

Excuse me?! I'm the one who kept her from bleeding all over the cobblestones like some tragic Victorian ghost, and I'm childish? I swear, she's like a child sometimes. A very dangerous, stab-happy, goth child who thinks pain is a personality trait.

Honestly, I don't know how she does it. Or how I keep doing this. Because here I am, sitting next to her while the nurse finishes up, and even though my nerves are fried and my nails are basically chewed down to the bone, a part of me still looks at her and thinks... yeah, I wouldn't trade her for anyone else.

But seriously. No more girls' nights.

...At least, not unless I bring holy water, a flashlight, and maybe a flamethrower next time, but no Tyler, thanks.

Well... okay, maybe I have to admit something — a tiny part of that whole disaster wasn't completely awful. Because somewhere between the running, the screaming, the blood, and my near-death-level panic, Wednesday Addams actually showed that she could be... sweet.

I know, I know — it sounds impossible. Like, sweet and Wednesday don't even belong in the same sentence without causing a universe-wide glitch. But she managed it. Somehow.

It was right after we escaped that disgusting, slobbering monster thing. My heart was still hammering in my chest like it was trying to break free, and my hands were shaking so much I could barely breathe. I was rambling — obviously — something about how we could've died, how I thought her leg might fall off, how the creature's eyes were going to haunt me forever. Typical me meltdown.

And then, out of nowhere, she turned to me. Her face was pale, serious as always, but her eyes — ugh, I swear they softened just a bit, like a frost melting for one tiny second. Before I could even register what was happening, her hands — her cold, marble-like hands — cupped my face.

My brain short-circuited.

I froze, staring at her because what on earth was happening? Wednesday Addams, touching me willingly? Comforting me? The same girl who flinches if I so much as brush her shoulder or accidentally glitter-bomb her shoes?

Her fingers were so cold it sent a shiver all the way down my spine, but weirdly, it wasn't unpleasant. It was... grounding. Like ice on overheated skin. Like she was silently saying, "Breathe, Enid. Stop spiraling." She didn't say a word, of course, because she's Wednesday and feelings are basically foreign to her, but the gesture was enough.

For a second, all the panic buzzing through me dimmed. My heart slowed down, my breath evened out, and everything — the monster, the blood, the fear — just faded into the background. It was like all that existed in that moment were her steady black eyes and her ridiculously cold hands.

Then, of course, she pulled back as quickly as she'd reached out, like she suddenly remembered she's not supposed to have emotions. She looked at me with that trademark unimpressed expression, the one that says, "Don't make this weird."

And okay, fine, maybe she did it out of annoyance. Maybe she just wanted me to shut up and stop hyperventilating all over her gothic personal space. But still — can you blame me for panicking? We were chased by a monster! I think I earned a full freak-out.

Still, I can't stop thinking about how gentle that touch was. Cold, yes — but also oddly soothing. Like Wednesday herself: sharp edges hiding something strangely steady underneath.

I'll never say this to her face; she'd probably threaten to decapitate me if I did, but that one little moment... yeah. It helped. More than I think she'll ever realize.

But nothing can stop me from writing a letter about it, right? I mean, seriously, it's basically my therapy at this point. It's very, very important to me to write things down — the emotions, the chaos, the little details — because if I don't, I feel like they'll just eat me alive from the inside out. And since Ajax left me that letter — that letter with my name in a heart on it — it's like the floodgates opened. I've been scribbling like crazy ever since, just pouring my whole neon soul onto paper.

And now, thank god, Wednesday is out. Out. Somewhere doing whatever creepy, morbid, totally-Addams thing she does when she's not terrifying me in person. Which means no one can hover over me, no one can glare at me with dead shark eyes, no one can threaten to "accidentally" burn everything I write. She can't stop me from putting it all down — not the monster, not her weirdly cold but gentle hands on my face, not the way she made me feel like the world wasn't ending for just one second.

I'm sitting at my colorful desk — my desk! The only bright, rainbowy spot in our dorm room, the little island of sunshine and stickers and glitter pens in a sea of black and cobwebs — and I'm happy. Like, actually happy. My notebook's open, my favorite gel pen's in my hand, and the page is already full of swirling doodles and hearts and words spilling out faster than my brain can even catch them.

I write down everything. How she scared me to death with that monster chase, how my heart almost stopped when I saw the blood, how her cold hands were weirdly soothing against my burning cheeks, how for just a moment she didn't feel like a storm cloud but something steadier. I even write down the part where she threatened to nailgun Ajax, because let's be honest, it's classic Wenny and also weirdly flattering.

The pen scratches against the paper, and it's like each line makes my heart feel lighter. I can still smell her shampoo in my hair from earlier, feel the faint ache of adrenaline fading out of my muscles. Everything is quiet. My side of the room glows with soft, warm fairy lights; hers sits across from me, dark and still like an ink blot. The contrast is so us that it almost makes me laugh.

I lean my chin on my palm for a second, staring at what I've written, the letters all colorful and alive. This is why I do it. This is why I need to do it. Because when everything around me is blood and monsters and Wednesday's endless stoicism, writing is how I make it all... mine.

And okay, maybe — just maybe — a tiny part of me hopes that someday she'll read one of these letters and know. Know how scared I was. Know how much that one small touch meant. Know that under all my squeaks and glitter and rambling, I'm actually paying attention.

But for now, it's just me, my pen, and my rainbow desk. And it feels safe. It feels like breathing again.

Dear Wednesday,

I don't know why I'm writing this. You'll never read it. You'd probably burn it or fold it into something sharp and stabby if you did. But I guess that's why it feels safe — because it's just between me and the page, and the page doesn't roll its eyes when I ramble too much.

You've been on my mind a lot lately. (Wow, that sounds creepy already. Great start, Enid.) But it's true. You have this way of taking up space in my thoughts without even trying. Like some kind of shadow that stretches over everything, quiet and constant. And before you say something sarcastic in my head, no, it's not because you're gloomy — it's because you're you.

You fascinate me, Wednesday Addams, from the first day I met you (that was the best of my life) you did. You really do. I've never met anyone so stubbornly themselves. You walk through the world like it's a battlefield and somehow you always come out clean, not a hair out of place. You never bend, never break, never even flinch. And I envy that. I really do. I spend so much of my life trying to fit in, trying to shine just bright enough that people won't notice the parts of me that still don't feel right. But you — you just exist exactly as you are. Sharp edges and all.

Sometimes I wonder what it's like inside your head. It must be so quiet there. Focused. Precise. You always look like you're five steps ahead of everyone else, like the whole world is a mystery you've already solved. And then there's me, still trying to find the right pen color for my notes and forgetting where I put my phone for the fifth time that day.

But somehow, you still tolerate me. You tolerate my noise, my glitter, my playlists, my late-night rants about boys and hair products and life in general. You act like it drives you insane — and maybe it does — but you're still there. You haven't asked to transfer rooms. You haven't murdered me in my sleep (which, given your whole aesthetic, feels like an actual accomplishment). You just... stay.

And that means something to me.

You'd probably scoff at this next part, but you've become a constant for me, Wednesday. I know you think you're not good at people, that you're all thorns and no warmth, but that's not true. You care — in your own weird, terrifying way, but you do. You check in on me without asking questions. You listen, even when I'm rambling. You notice things about me no one else does, even if you never say them out loud.

Sometimes, when I catch you watching me from your desk — not in a creepy way, just quietly observing — I get this feeling that you see me. Like, really see me. Beyond the noise and colors and the constant talking. And that's... rare. I didn't think someone like you could see someone like me.

And okay, fine, I'll admit it: I'm a little envious of you. Not in a bad way. It's just... everything about you is effortlessly beautiful. You're like a painting that shouldn't make sense but does anyway — pale skin, dark eyes, that impossible hair that never gets frizzy no matter the weather. How? Seriously, how? I use like seven products and still wake up looking like a rainbow explosion. You wake up looking like a gothic masterpiece. It's so unfair.

But it's not just the way you look. It's the way you are. The way you carry yourself, the way your words always sound like they've been carved instead of spoken. The way your eyes stay steady when you talk, like nothing could shake you. You make silence feel like something full instead of empty. You make stillness feel... safe.

You scare people sometimes, you know. I used to be one of them. You were this storm I couldn't figure out — quiet but somehow thundering at the same time. But somewhere along the way, I stopped being scared. Maybe because I realized storms can be beautiful, too.

And I don't know when it happened exactly — maybe in one of those rare moments when you almost smiled, or when you didn't tell me to shut up even though you wanted to — but I started caring about you more than I planned to. Not just as my roommate. Not even just as my friend. You've become this strange, steady rhythm in my life. The dark to my light, I guess. The calm to my chaos.

Sometimes I wish I could tell you all of this out loud, but I know you. You'd probably arch an eyebrow and ask if I'm having an emotional breakdown. Or you'd quote Poe at me and walk away. So I won't say it. I'll just write it here, where it's safe.

I'm grateful for you, Wednesday. Truly. For being there even when you don't mean to be. For catching me when I trip over my own words (metaphorically and literally). For letting me talk your ears off about Ajax and classes and everything else under the sun. For those tiny, quiet moments when you let the world see that you're human, even if it's only for a second.

You make me want to be braver. To stand taller. To be more myself. And that's probably the biggest gift anyone's ever given me.

I don't know if you'll ever read this. You'd probably think it's ridiculous. But if you did — somehow — I hope you'd understand that this isn't about making you uncomfortable or trying to change you. It's just me saying thank you. For being you. For staying. For letting me into your orbit, even if it's just a tiny corner of it.

And maybe I shouldn't say this part, but... sometimes when the room is dark and quiet, I catch myself wishing you'd talk to me more. Or smile. Or just sit next to me without that tiny inch of distance you always keep. I think that's when I realize how much I care.

Anyway. That's enough emotional oversharing for one night. If you ever read all of this — which, let's be real, you won't — please don't set it on fire. Or dissect it. Just... maybe read it and know that you matter to someone, even if that someone is a loud, overly sparkly werewolf who never shuts up; you are my first and only best friend after all.

With all my love (and glitter, obviously),
Enid 🌈🐾

♫⋆。♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟAll I can say is, I was enchanted to meet you ♫⋆。♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

♱ ˖ ࣪ ★ Wednesday POV ♱ ˖ ࣪ ★

That's just too much. Even for me. The weight of it all presses down on my ribcage as if the Hyde's claws never left my leg. Me cupping her face. Her dragging me to the nurse despite my protests. Me walking silently beside her, not even bothering to pull my arm free from her grasp because it would only make her fuss more. Each gesture, each touch, each moment of uninvited closeness feels like a chain I allowed to tighten around me.

And now, not only am I forced back to our dorm room — my sanctuary — but the room is empty, still, waiting. The quiet should be comforting. It isn't. The faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air, sweet and bright, cutting through the darkness like a blade. My eyes adjust slowly, the familiar outlines of my half of the room emerging from the shadows: my desk, my bed, my bedside table. My flowers. Her flowers. The mistake I didn't throw out.

I stop.

The vase sits there exactly where I left it, black glass shimmering faintly in the muted light, the bouquet she brought me drooping slightly now that days have passed. The black dahlias still hold their shape, stubborn in their darkness, a mirror of everything I have tried to be. But beside them — something new.

A folded letter. And a small black box.

The sight hits me harder than the Hyde's roar, sharper than the scratch on my leg. The box is small, almost delicate, its surface matte like a secret it doesn't want to share. The envelope is the same shade, no writing on the outside, just a single folded piece of black paper resting there like it's always belonged.

I know, instantly, that I allowed this.

Allowing the flowers to stay had been the first mistake. I'd told myself it didn't matter — that ignoring them would make them meaningless. But that's not how things work. Objects have a way of taking root, of becoming symbols you can't uproot without tearing out something of yourself. And now this — this letter, this box — it's not just her crossing a line. It's me who built the path for her to walk across.

I move closer, slow, deliberate, each step making the floor creak under my boots. My fingers twitch at my sides. My face stays neutral, but inside, my pulse stutters in irritation and something else I refuse to name. The flowers seem darker than before, the room smaller, the air heavier. I reach the table and stop, staring down at the arrangement like it's a crime scene.

The black box catches a beam of stray light from the window. It glints dully, like an eye.

I know what's happening. Every gesture I didn't shut down, every moment I hesitated, every flicker of softness I let her glimpse — cupping her face, tolerating her hand on mine, not discarding the bouquet — all of it built to this. She's growing comfortable, bold even, acting as though she can do as she pleases with me. And I am the victim of it — not in the theatrical sense she might imagine, but in the quiet, corrosive way that erodes control.

I hate it.

I hate that my body still feels the echo of her head against my knee. I hate that her worried eyes still flash behind mine when I close them. I hate that her scent lingers on my coat from the nurse's office. And more than all of it, I hate that I didn't stop this when I still could.

Because now she's learned something.

She's learned that my boundaries are pliable. That if she pushes long enough, she can bend me. And the truth is, she's right. I'm too weak to stop her. And that, more than her flowers or her gifts or her hands, is what actually burns.

I stay there, frozen, staring at the black box and the folded letter like they're a trap, like touching them will make this real. The air feels heavier, my room feels smaller, and my own mind feels like a cage I built myself.

I sit down slowly on my bed, the mattress sighing under my weight as though even it knows what's coming. The smell of the black dahlias rises up stronger now that I'm close, a dark, earthy sweetness that curls around my senses like smoke. It's not comforting anymore; it feels invasive, like fingers creeping under my skin.

The letter waits in my hands — weightless and yet unbearably heavy. I slip a finger under the fold, tear it open with a single precise motion, and unfold the page. My eyes fall on the first line and I read. Then again. And again. My gaze flicks over every word as if repetition might transform them into something else, something less dangerous.

But the words don't change.

My face stays the same — cold, stoic, unreadable — the same mask I've worn my entire life. To anyone else I'd look as though I'm simply skimming another text for research. But inside, something crumbles, a slow implosion of all the walls I've been stacking brick by brick. My lungs feel too small. My chest aches. My pulse rattles in my ears like a distant scream I won't let out.

I wish, absurdly, that the feeling of suffocating would turn literal. That my breath would stop, that my body would collapse, that it would all end with something physical and final instead of this endless internal scraping. At least then there would be proof of what this feels like.

All these sweet words.

The letter spills them like honey over poison — meeting me was the best day of her life. Compliments threaded between confessions. Admiration disguised as innocence. Each line heavy with a softness I never asked for, never wanted, and yet... there it is, wrapping around me tighter than any chain.

And then the words that break everything:

"you are my best friend."

No. No. No. You don't write such things to your best friend. Not like this, not wrapped in these gestures, not sealed in a black envelope left beside black dahlias. It's a contradiction carved into paper. A confession and a denial all at once.

A single tear stains the page. I don't even feel it leave my eye; it just appears, darkening the paper like an ink blot. Immediately, instinctively, I recompose myself, pulling the mask back on before it slips further. My hand tightens around the letter until the paper crumbles a little where I'm holding it, the edges bending under my grip.

But I keep reading anyway, eyes scanning the same words, trying to kill them with repetition, to drain them of meaning. My face stays impassive. Inside, I'm a collapsing cathedral of black stone.

I set the letter aside without even bothering to fold it back. It remains there, lying open on the bed like a dissection, its words exposed and raw beneath the dim light of the lamp. The paper quivers faintly from the draft creeping through the slightly open window, and for a moment, I imagine it's breathing — mocking me with every faint rustle. My fingers twitch at my side, aching to tear it to shreds, to rip every sentence until nothing remains but white confetti scattered on the floor. Yet some absurd impulse holds me still. I simply stare at it.

It's ridiculous, this hesitation. It's a page, nothing more. Ink and paper. But it feels alive, whispering its sweetness into my mind over and over, burning itself into the part of me that refuses to go quiet. Should I burn it? Watch the fire eat each letter, devouring the curves of her words until the ash turns gray and lifeless? That would be cleaner, rational even. But another thought — weaker, more despicable — tempts me to keep it. To hide it somewhere secret and forbidden, in a drawer or under the loose floorboard by my bed. To read it again on nights when sleep refuses to come and my mind insists on replaying her laughter, her smile, her unbearable warmth.

Masochism. That's what this is. And I despise myself for entertaining it.

I drag my eyes away from the letter, toward the little black box sitting innocently beside the vase of black dahlias. It matches the flowers perfectly — both dark, elegant, and sickeningly personal. I knew I should've thrown those cursed flowers away the moment she gave them to me, but instead, I let them stay, their scent slowly filling the room, mingling with my thoughts until I could no longer tell where one ended and the other began. Now this box appears beside them, a companion piece to my own undoing.

My fingers hover above it, trembling slightly. I exhale. The rational part of me whispers to leave it closed, to walk away before it tightens its hold on me too. But curiosity — that cruel, human flaw I pretend I'm immune to — wins again. I lift the lid.

No ring, thankfully. I almost expected one, the final mockery — "To my best friend forever," carved in some hideous cursive font, something sentimental enough to make my skin crawl. But no. Somehow, she managed to do worse.

Inside are notes. Dozens of them. Tiny, folded squares of paper, each one carefully placed as if they were precious gems. Some are crisp, cut perfectly along their edges, others torn unevenly, rushed — but all written in the same looping, lively handwriting I know far too well. My throat tightens without warning.

There's something written on the inside of the lid. "Read them when you need them."

I stare at that single line for too long. The words are simple, unthreatening, and yet they sit heavy in my chest, pressing on something I don't want to name.

I pick one up between two fingers. It's so small, so delicate. I unfold it slowly, carefully, as though it might dissolve if I breathe too hard.

You're doing amazing, even if you don't believe it.

I blink. Once. Twice. My pulse quickens against my will. I reach for another.

The world needs more people like you, even if you think it doesn't.

And another.

You don't have to smile, I already know when you're okay and when you're not.

By the third one, I stop. I can't go on. My vision wavers, the words blur. My fingers tremble, not from sadness — no, that would imply weakness — but from something far worse. Fury. Confusion. Shame.

I shove the notes back into the box. Too quickly. Some crumple, some refuse to fold the way they were meant to, but I don't care. I just need them gone, hidden, silenced. I slam the lid shut, the sound cracking through the stillness of the room like a gunshot.

Each word, each gesture — it's unbearable. The sweetness of it burns more than hatred ever could. There's no malice in her notes, no cruelty to grasp onto, nothing I can use to justify despising her the way I need to. She only ever gives, and gives, until I feel drowned by it. Until I can't tell whether I hate her for her light or crave it because I have none of my own.

Why would she do this? Why me?

Her laughter still lingers somewhere in the room, echoing faintly in my mind like a melody I can't silence. Every note, every word she's ever spoken to me — too bright, too warm, too alive — now festers under my skin. I can still feel her touch from earlier, her hand on my shoulder, her head on my knee, her fingers brushing mine when she gave me the flowers. It's as though she left traces of herself everywhere, and now I can't scrape them off no matter how hard I try.

I look down at my hands. They're pale and steady again, at least on the surface. My mask returns — cold, perfect, expressionless. But my chest aches, a quiet, twisting pain that refuses to subside.

I place the box beside the vase again. It looks harmless there, sitting among the black petals, like a secret that promises not to hurt me anymore. But I know better.

No. I can't let this consume me. I can't keep letting her words carve at the edges of whatever dark, quiet sanity I have left. I can't allow her to make me soft, to turn me into something fragile and dependent.

She's too dangerous. Too bright. Too kind.

And I'm done letting her destroy me piece by piece with her affection. Done suffering because of a stupid werewolf and her stupid, beautiful words.

I hear the dorm room door creak open behind me before I even see her. That familiar, saccharine energy slips into the space like an invasive scent — the one I can never quite scrub out. Her presence fills the room instantly, as it always does, too bright, too loud, too alive. My jaw tightens before I even turn my head.

"Wenny! You're back! How is your leg... oh and you read those?!" she squeaks, her voice rising with that unbearable excitement she coats everything in.

Her words are honey and glass at once — sweet and cutting, sticking in my ears. I don't answer. Not immediately. Instead, I stare at the little black box and the scattered letter on my bed for a heartbeat longer, watching her reflection blur in the darkened window. Then, without thinking, I let everything slide off my hands and onto the covers — the letter, the notes, the box, all of it. The sound of them hitting the comforter is muffled, but for me it's deafening.

I stand. My movements are slow but deliberate. My leg still aches faintly from the Hyde's claw — a thin, pulsing reminder of how close I had been — but I ignore it. I push the pain down the same way I push everything else down. My steps are measured, almost predatory, as I cross the room toward her. I'm still limping slightly, but that doesn't stop me from holding myself upright, tall, my back straight, my face carved into a mask she cannot read.

I've let her too close. Too much freedom. Too many second chances. Each one was a crack in the wall I built around myself, and she slipped through every single one without effort, smiling all the while. But not this time. This time, the wall stays up.

"Stop it." The words fall from my lips like the snap of a trap. Sharp. Short. Final.

Her smile falters instantly. The air shifts. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, she looks startled — like a child caught with her hand in a jar. Her mouth stays half-open, the rest of whatever she was about to squeal dying on her tongue. Her big, infuriatingly blue eyes search my face for some sign of warmth, some sign that I'm joking, but she'll find nothing there. My mask is perfect now.

I can feel the heat rising in my chest, a simmering frustration, but also something else — something heavier, quieter, that tastes dangerously like guilt. But I push it down, bury it deep. This is necessary. This is survival.

If I don't push her away now, she'll consume me entirely. She already has her claws in everything I do, everything I think, everything I write. She's infiltrated my quiet hours, my mind, even my research. I've let her. I've been weak. And that weakness disgusts me more than anything she could ever say or do.

I take another step closer to her. She's still standing in the doorway, her pink coat hanging off her shoulders, her bag still on one arm. Her hair falls like sunlight, framing her face in a way that would almost be angelic if it didn't make me want to scream.

I'm close enough now to see her expression clearly: confusion, a flicker of hurt, but also — impossibly — a trace of hope. She still thinks I'm going to soften. That I'll break the silence with some dry quip and everything will return to our twisted, nauseating routine.

Not this time.

My voice is cold when I finally speak again, sharper than it's ever been. "Stop it." Just those two words. Nothing more. No explanations, no apologies, no half-hearted softness for her to cling to.

I know what's coming next. The way she'll blink rapidly, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, searching for some response. The way her hands will twitch at her sides, wanting to reach out but not daring. I know I'm about to watch that brightness in her dim, to watch her retreat, at least for a moment.

And maybe — just maybe — that should feel like victory.

But it doesn't.

Inside, my heart is a clenched fist, my thoughts spiraling like vultures. I can feel the words I want to say clawing at my throat, the truth of why I'm doing this, of what she's done to me, of how she's been acting — but I bite them back. I will not give her the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she's gotten under my skin. I will not speak weakness into existence.

She can figure it out alone. If she even has the capacity to. And if she doesn't, then good. That means she'll stop.

This is going to be a long, harsh discussion.

And for the first time, I almost look forward to it.

♫⋆。♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟYou should find another guiding light ♫⋆。♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Chapter Text

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Enid POV °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

I've never experienced something quite like this. It's strange — I've had arguments before, of course. Silly ones, emotional ones, the kind that start with a misunderstanding and end with hugs and apologies. But this... this wasn't like that. This felt different. Like a wall finally breaking, but instead of warmth spilling through, it was ice.

I'm not used to fighting with people, especially not people I care about. I hate fights. I hate the tension, the way words start to sound like weapons instead of feelings, how even the smallest sentence can suddenly cut deep. And I think what hurts most is that I never even meant for it to happen. I wasn't trying to provoke her, or push her, or whatever she thinks I did. I was just being... me.

But she — she just snapped.

One moment, she was quiet, calm as always, typing away on that old typewriter like nothing in the world could shake her. And then something in her eyes shifted. Like a storm cloud rolling in, dark and fast and heavy. Her voice didn't rise — it never does — but it was sharp, cold enough to make my stomach twist. She kept talking, each word more precise, more cutting than the last. Yelling, but not loud. Angry, but not in the way most people are. It was the kind of anger that sounds like disappointment — the kind that makes you want to shrink, disappear, rewind time and start over.

She insulted me, I think — not with the usual sarcastic tone she uses, not the dry, "Enid, your optimism is nauseating" kind of thing. This was... harsher. Real. It felt personal. She told me I was exhausting, that my constant need to brighten everything around me was suffocating. That my voice never stopped. That my colors — my pinks and yellows and sparkles — were too much.

And she said it all with that same unreadable face. Not a tremor, not a tear, not even a raised brow. Just that stoic, marble expression — like she was made of ice and I was the flame that finally made her crack.

I stood there, frozen, trying to understand what I did wrong. How kindness, friendliness — me — could be the reason she broke. Maybe I was too pushy? Too loud? Too cheerful in a world that doesn't fit her darkness? Maybe my constant attempts to make her smile were never kindness at all, but selfishness. Maybe I just wanted proof that even Wednesday Addams could care about me.

But still... nobody reacts like that because of kindness. Nobody lashes out just because someone's trying to be close. There's something else there — I could see it, hiding behind her words. Some kind of pain she's too proud to show, too stubborn to name. And I hate that part of me still wants to comfort her even after she hurt me.

Because under all that anger, that cold voice, that sharpness — I felt it. I felt her distress. Like something inside her was fighting to stay buried, and I accidentally dug too deep. And maybe that's what this is: not hate, not disgust, but fear. Fear of connection, of vulnerability, of anyone seeing her for more than what she wants to be.

Still... it hurts.

It hurts because I thought we were finally okay. Because she let me in — just a little — and I started to believe she didn't mind me being there. And now, all I can think about is that look in her eyes when she turned away, like I was some blinding light she couldn't stand to look at anymore.

I don't understand her. I really don't. How can someone so brilliant, so composed, so untouchable, also be so... broken? How can she look at me like I'm both a nuisance and the only person who dares to see her?

I just... don't understand.

And maybe that's the worst part — that I still want to.

I look at her with teary eyes, the air between us thick enough to choke on. "Wenny... please, I don't understand this... what have I done to you?" My voice comes out shaky, trembling, every word threatening to crumble into a sob. I'm trying so hard to keep it together, but it's like all the walls I built to stay positive are cracking at once.

She doesn't move. She doesn't flinch. Her face is carved from stone, her eyes cold and unreadable, like she's already decided what this conversation is going to be. "No," she says flatly, her voice sharp and cutting in a way that makes my stomach twist. "Stop it. Don't call me that. I hate it. It's disgustingly sweet, and I'm done enduring this, Enid."

Each word hits like a slap. I can't even blink; I just stare at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. She's never spoken to me like this before — never this... cruel. "I have my spaces," she continues, voice steady, cold, relentless. "You have yours. And you have no right to cross my boundaries."

My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out at first. I'm too stunned, too hurt to even process it. I blink, and a tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. "But I..." My voice cracks. "I haven't crossed anything. I just— I just showed you that I care about you. Because you're my best frien—"

She cuts me off like a knife to the chest. "Don't you try calling me that."

Her words slice through the air — final, merciless. My throat closes up, and I swallow hard, trying to push down the sob clawing its way up. "Why?" I whisper, my voice barely there. "Why are you doing this?"

But she doesn't answer. She just stands there, still as ever, her face emotionless, eyes burning with something I can't name. Maybe anger. Maybe fear. Maybe both.

I can feel myself breaking in slow motion, every beat of my heart echoing her rejection. It's not just about the nickname. It's about everything — the tea, the letters, the small moments I thought meant something. Every tiny crack of warmth she ever showed me feels like it was a lie, and I don't know how to breathe through that.

She turns away, her back rigid, and for a moment, I almost reach out — my hand trembling midair — but I stop myself. Because she made it clear. She doesn't want me crossing her lines. She doesn't want me there.

My voice comes out as a whisper, broken and small. "I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted to be... someone you didn't hate being around."

But she doesn't turn around. She doesn't say a word. The silence stretches, long and unbearable, until I can't take it anymore. I just stand there, feeling the tears run hot down my face, staring at her shadowed figure — the same girl who once made me feel safe with a single touch.

Now, she just feels unreachable. Like a star I'll never be close enough to hold.

"You are the most important person in my life, Wenn—" I choke out, my throat tight and my chest aching. The nickname slips from my tongue before I can stop it, too natural, too me, and instantly I regret it.

Her eyes harden. Her whole face goes blank, cold, sharp, the warmth gone before it even had the chance to exist. "Don't you throw that at me," she says, each word clipped and precise, like she's dissecting them before letting them leave her mouth. "I'm not. I want to be alone. And you just keep pushing yourself into my life."

I open my mouth to say something — anything — but she keeps going, her voice low and merciless. "Get out of there. I'm not important to you. You aren't important to me. You're just good at pretending you care."

For a moment, it's like the world just... stops.

The words hit so hard I actually stumble back half a step. My vision blurs, and before I realize it, a few tears slip down my cheeks. I'm not even trying to hide them; I can't. They fall fast, hot, like they've been waiting for this moment.

Pretending. She really thinks that?

I press my trembling fingers to my lips, shaking my head, trying to process what she just said. The pain in my chest burns, and then — all at once — it ignites. The tears keep falling, but they don't feel soft anymore. They sting, hot with anger.

"Pretending?" I echo, my voice unsteady but rising. "You think I'm pretending to care about you?"

She doesn't answer. Just stands there, calm, stoic — and it makes something inside me snap.

I take a shaky breath, my voice louder now, trembling with hurt and fury. "I've done everything — everything — to try and make this stupid friendship work, Wednesday! I've been patient, I've respected your space, I've put up with your walls, your silence, your insults, all of it. Because I thought—" My voice breaks, and I hate it. "Because I thought you were worth it!"

She still doesn't move. Doesn't even blink.

"You say I don't care?" I whisper, but my voice is shaking too much to sound calm anymore. "You think this—" I gesture wildly between us, "—is fake? That I've just been pretending all this time? You don't get to say that, Wednesday! You don't get to decide what's real for me!"

The room feels too small, the walls too close. I can feel the heat in my face, the sting behind my eyes, the pulse of anger in my chest. I've never raised my voice at her before. I've never even wanted to. But she's standing there tearing me apart with that same emotionless expression, and it's unbearable.

"I know you, Wednesday," I say, quieter now, but still shaking. "I know you don't let people in. I know you hate needing anyone. But I'm not sorry for caring about you. I never will be."

For a split second, something flickers in her eyes — guilt, pain, I don't know — and then it's gone. Just like that. Walled off again.

My heart hurts so much it's hard to breathe. I wipe at my tears with the back of my hand, but they just keep coming. I take a step back, my voice breaking into something small and fragile. "You don't mean that," I whisper. "You can't."

But she doesn't deny it. She doesn't say anything.

So I stand there, every piece of me raw and trembling, watching her stare back at me like none of this matters. And even though I know I should walk away, that I should protect what's left of me — I can't move.

Because even now, after everything she's said, I still care.
And maybe that's the cruelest part of all.

"Fine, you want to be alone, Wednesday? Then be it."

The words come out sharper than I mean them to, but I don't take them back. I can't. My throat burns, my voice cracks halfway through, but I push it out anyway. Because if I don't, I'll fall apart right here in front of her, and I can't give her that satisfaction — can't let her see how much she's managed to break me with just a few words.

I turn away before she can say anything, blinking fast to clear the tears blurring my vision. My hands move on their own, shoving a few things into my bag — a hoodie, my phone charger, a couple of plushies, my journal. I don't even know what I'm doing, I just know I have to move. I can't stay in that room, not with her standing there like a statue, not with the silence pressing against my ears like it's laughing at me.

Every motion is jerky, too fast, too angry. The zipper catches and I almost rip it in frustration. My chest hurts, my eyes sting, and I can't stop thinking, why am I even letting her treat me like this? Why do I care so much?

I throw my bag over my shoulder, refusing to look at her again. My heart's pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to escape my ribs. "You got what you wanted," I mutter, my voice shaking but still laced with bitterness. "Enjoy your silence."

And I storm out before my resolve can crumble.

The hallway feels colder than it should, the air biting at my skin. My footsteps echo against the floor, too loud, too fast, and I keep my head down, biting the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying. People pass by — classmates, friends — but I can't even register their faces. My vision's a blur, my chest tight, my thoughts spinning.

I make it halfway down the corridor before I can't anymore. Before the dam just... bursts.

The tears come all at once — hot, unstoppable, ugly. My knees feel weak, and I press a hand to the wall to steady myself. The first sob tears out of me before I can swallow it back, and then there's no stopping the rest. Everything hits me like a brick — the anger, the heartbreak, the confusion, the exhaustion of trying and trying and getting nothing back but walls and cold words.

She doesn't care. That's what she said. She doesn't care.

But then why does it hurt so much to hear it?

I keep walking, slower now, my head spinning. I don't even know where I'm going — maybe Yoko's dorm, maybe nowhere. I just need to get away, to breathe, to stop feeling like I'm about to fall apart. My tears blur the hallway lights into soft streaks of gold and white, and I hate that I still see her in them — her pale face, her dark eyes, her impossible calm.

"Fine," I whisper to no one, my voice cracking around the word. "Be alone then, Wednesday. Be alone forever if that's what you want."

But the truth sits heavy in my chest — that I don't mean it. That I'd take her coldness over this emptiness any day. That I'd rather have her angry at me than not have her at all.

Still, I keep walking. Because right now, it's the only thing I can do.

♫⋆。♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟMaybe we got lost in translation ♫⋆。♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ