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Wednesday Addams had never had friends.
That was not an exaggeration, nor some dramatic form of teenage cynicism she wore for effect. She genuinely had none.
For sixteen years, she had never formed a stable, intimate bond with anyone her own age, and she had never truly understood the invisible social rules that everyone else seemed to grasp instinctively. Of course, she understood the concept of friendship in theory. She knew people spent time together, shared meals, exchanged secrets, laughed at private jokes. But to Wednesday, those interactions always resembled specimens observed through glass: she could identify the structure while remaining detached from the emotional logic underneath.
Because Wednesday’s world had always been very small.
Small enough to contain only the Addams family.
And the relationships within the Addams family had never been remotely normal.
They were passionate, obsessive, entirely without boundaries. They expressed affection openly and intensely, prioritized one another above all else, and regarded lifelong devotion as the natural state of love. To the Addamses, there had never been a meaningful distinction between affection and possession, between closeness and complete emotional surrender.
So in Wednesday’s mind, liking someone had never required classification.
If she cared about someone, she watched them constantly, stayed near them, memorized every detail about them, and expected, naturally, that they would do the same in return.
She had always assumed that was simply how relationships worked.
Until she met Enid Sinclair.
·.·.··.·.··.·.··.·.·
At first, Enid merely thought Wednesday was strange.
Not frighteningly strange.
Just… strange in a way that suggested she possessed absolutely no sense of boundaries.
Because Wednesday’s attention toward her was painfully direct. She would casually remove the bell peppers from Enid’s breakfast because she knew she hated them. She would sit silently beside Enid’s bed after nightmares without announcing herself. She would pause halfway through reading in the library simply to pull Enid’s slipping cardigan back over her shoulders.
The worst part was that Wednesday did all of this with absolutely no awareness of how intimate it looked.
To her, it simply made sense.
·.·.··.·.··.·.··.·.·
“Addams, friends don’t usually do this.”
Enid finally blurted it out one afternoon.
They were sitting in their dorm room, and Wednesday merely lifted her head from her book at the comment, dark braids resting neatly over her chest.
“Do what?”
Enid immediately realized she did not even know where to begin.
There were too many examples.
“You literally dried my hair for me yesterday!”
Wednesday turned a page calmly.
“You would have caught a cold.”
“But normal friends don’t do that!”
“My father brushes my mother’s hair.”
Wednesday answered as though that settled the matter entirely.
Enid stared at her.
“…They’re married.”
Wednesday frowned slightly, visibly unable to understand the distinction.
“If I have affection for you, why would I not take care of you?”
“Because…”
Enid opened her mouth, only to realize she had absolutely no coherent explanation.
·.·.··.·.··.·.··.·.·
What truly unsettled Enid was the purity of Wednesday’s focus.
She was not like this with anyone else.
Not Yoko.
Not Bianca.
Not even Thing.
Only Enid.
Wednesday remembered all her habits, sat beside her in silence whenever she was upset, and tried—in her own awkward way—to comfort her during emotional spirals. Yet somehow, Wednesday still did not behave like someone consciously in love.
She did not blush.
She did not become flustered.
She did not appear remotely aware that half her actions had already crossed every ordinary boundary of friendship.
She simply wanted to be near Enid.
And somehow, that complete lack of self-consciousness made the entire thing infinitely more overwhelming.
·.·.··.·.··.·.··.·.·
“You can’t keep hugging me like that.”
Enid finally exploded one evening after Wednesday casually leaned against her from behind again.
The position was far too intimate.
Intimate enough to make Enid’s entire body burn.
To her surprise, Wednesday actually stopped. She looked at Enid quietly.
“Do you dislike it?”
Enid’s breath caught immediately.
Because she didn’t dislike it.
If anything, she liked it far too much.
But she forced herself to maintain some semblance of normalcy.
“It’s not that I hate it.”
“It’s just… friends don’t usually act like this.”
Wednesday went silent for a long moment before speaking again.
“Human beings classify relationships very inefficiently.”
Enid blinked.
“What?”
“If you are the only person toward whom I feel this degree of affection, then you are already fundamentally different from everyone else.”
She sounded genuinely confused.
“So why is an additional label necessary?”
Enid could not answer.
Because Wednesday truly did not understand.
·.·.··.·.··.·.··.·.·
Over time, Enid began to notice how many of Wednesday’s traits differed from everyone else’s. She disliked prolonged eye contact, hated sudden loud noises, and reacted strongly to certain textures, smells, and touches. Whenever she became emotionally overwhelmed, she withdrew into silence for hours at a time.
And once Wednesday focused on something, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.
Including social boundaries.
Including hints.
Including all the invisible rules people were somehow expected to understand instinctively.
She was not intentionally crossing lines.
No one had ever taught her where those lines were supposed to be.
·.·.··.·.··.·.··.·.··.·.·
Wednesday truly doesn't care about the opinions of anyone other than Enid.
In her world, there are only two kinds of people: a homogeneous sea of strangers and those whose names she knows, and those she has feelings for.
Once, Enid merely went to the library to discuss an assignment with Bianca, and Wednesday silently sat down beside them. Then remained there without saying a word.
Bianca eventually snapped first.
“Addams, what exactly are you doing?”
Without looking up, Wednesday replied:
“Accompanying Enid.”
“…We’re discussing a project.”
“I am aware.”
“Then why are you sitting here?”
Wednesday finally lifted her eyes, expression so calm it bordered on innocence.
“Because I wanted to be near her.”
The entire table went silent.
Enid wanted to find a hole and jump into it right then and there.
·.·.··.·.··.·.··.·.·
What truly shook Enid, however, happened on a rainy evening.
She had returned from a miserable phone call with her family and could barely even force herself to smile.
Wednesday had been typing when Enid walked in. She looked up once—just once—then quietly closed her typewriter.
“Come here.”
Her voice was low.
Enid initially tried to pretend she was fine.
But Wednesday had already lifted one side of the blanket beside her.
The motion itself was oddly awkward, as though she was uncertain whether she was doing the correct thing.
Eventually, Enid crawled over anyway.
Wednesday did not ask what was wrong. She did not pressure her to explain, nor offer shallow reassurances she did not believe in.
She simply sat beside her quietly.
And when Enid began trembling despite herself, Wednesday wrapped an arm around her with effortless instinct.
Something inside Enid softened immediately.
·.·.··.·.··.·.··.·.·
She was not in love with Wednesday.
Not yet.
She was still confused, still startled by Wednesday’s complete lack of boundaries, still trying every day to explain what “normal friendship” was supposed to look like.
And yet she could no longer deny one thing.
Wednesday’s affection for her had never once been false.
It was painfully honest.
Honest in the way children were honest before they learned how to hide themselves.
And perhaps that was exactly why it felt so precious.
Late that night, half-asleep, Enid felt someone pulling the blanket back over her shoulders. She cracked her eyes open just enough to see Wednesday returning quietly to her own bed, dark braids falling over pale shoulders, her profile blending into the darkness itself.
And watching her, Enid found herself thinking softly:
If she ever did fall in love with this girl someday…
it would probably happen very naturally.