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Enid Sinclair was not stupid.
She felt the need to make that clear first, even though no one had actually accused her of being stupid. She knew Wednesday Addams had no interest in Xavier Thorpe. She had eyes. She had ears. She possessed a basic capacity for emotional interpretation, and she had enough experience as Wednesday’s roommate to tell the difference between Wednesday being “interested in someone” and Wednesday “assessing whether someone could be efficiently buried in forest soil.”
Xavier very clearly belonged to the latter category.
Or somewhere close to it.
The problem was, knowing was one thing. Standing nearby while Xavier approached Wednesday with his sketchbook, in that supposedly subtle way that somehow remained visible to the entire hallway, was another thing entirely.
“I drew something,” Xavier said.
Wednesday was studying the newly posted club activity schedule on the bulletin board, her expression suggesting that she was reading a pathological report on the decline of human civilization. She did not turn around immediately.
“Nearly everyone in this school draws something,” she said. “Most of the results prove that art education should never have been democratized.”
Xavier stiffened.
Enid stood on the other side of the hallway, holding the paper bag she had just brought back from the floral club. It was full of dried flowers for Halloween decorations. She had only meant to wait for Wednesday so they could walk back to the dorm together, and maybe remind her that the werewolf club had borrowed the common room tonight, so she should not call it “an acoustic disaster zone with excessive hair concentration” again.
But now Enid had stopped.
She was not eavesdropping.
The hallway was a public space. There was no such thing as eavesdropping in a public space, only being forced to receive other people’s excessively audible emotional decisions.
Xavier held the sketchbook out a little farther. “It’s about your vision. Or part of what I saw. I thought you might want to know first.”
This time, Wednesday finally looked at him.
Enid’s stomach contracted in a way that was entirely unnecessary.
Wednesday took the sketchbook. Her movement was calm, without enough impatience to tear the page, and without enough cruelty to refuse outright. She even lowered her eyes and looked at the drawing for ten whole seconds.
Ten seconds.
Enid had become very sensitive to time. Especially on occasions she found personally offensive. Ten seconds was long enough for a werewolf to smell a lie, and long enough for a girl to begin telling herself: don’t overthink it, you know she doesn’t mean it like that, you really do know.
The drawing showed a blurred clock tower, black vine-like shadows beneath it, and a slender figure standing high above, with a cracked moon behind them. The style was gloomy. The composition was beautiful. And, very unfortunately, it looked exactly like something Wednesday would find interesting.
Xavier lowered his voice. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”
Wednesday did not look up.
“Is that an observation,” she asked, “or a tedious attempt at courtship?”
Xavier’s expression shifted.
Enid almost laughed.
She tried very hard not to.
Wednesday handed the sketchbook back to him. “The clock tower’s proportions are incorrect. The direction of the fracture in the moon does not match the angle from my previous vision. The vines have reference value, but the overall artistic interpretation is excessive.”
Xavier seemed to have grown used to receiving gratitude from her in the form of an autopsy report.
“So you’ve seen something like this?”
“You?” Wednesday repeated, her voice as cold as a blade lowered into ice water. “I strongly advise you not to use language of shared experience regarding my visions without authorization.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Then provide verifiable information and stop packaging interference as concern.”
Xavier opened his mouth.
This was the point where Enid should have relaxed.
Under normal circumstances, any bystander could tell that Wednesday had not accepted Xavier’s attention in the slightest. She had taken the sketch because it might be a clue. She had looked at him because he was blocking the bulletin board. She had not walked away immediately because the information had practical value to the investigation.
Enid knew all of that.
She knew.
But she also knew that Wednesday had not shoved the sketchbook back into Xavier’s chest. She had not said, “Your emotional projection has reduced the quality of this evidence.” She had not ended the conversation at once. She had let Xavier stand there, let him remain a little closer than most people were allowed, let that insufficiently defined gray area continue existing.
And Enid abruptly hated gray areas.
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
At lunch, Ajax asked if she was murdering her salad.
Enid looked down and realized she had driven her fork into a tomato with considerably more force than necessary. Tomato juice bled across the plate like a very small, very innocent crime scene.
“I’m not,” she said.
Ajax looked at the plate, then at her.
“I think it’s lost its chance to testify.”
Yoko sat beside them with her straw caught between her teeth, wearing the expression of someone already prepared to watch a tragedy without any intention of intervening.
“You looked like you wanted to fold Xavier’s sketchbook into a swan and shove it into his mouth.”
“I did not,” Enid said too quickly.
Yoko raised an eyebrow.
Enid put down her fork.
“I just think he’s annoying.”
“He is always annoying,” Yoko said. “But today you’re being more artistic about it.”
Ajax said quietly, “I thought Xavier was kind of nice.”
Yoko and Enid both looked at him.
Ajax immediately looked down at his soup.
Enid propped her cheek in one hand and tried not to look toward Wednesday again. She failed. Her gaze crossed the cafeteria and landed near the window. Wednesday was sitting there, a tray in front of her, Xavier’s sketch resting beside her hand.
She was looking at it.
Still looking.
Bianca seemed to say something as she passed by, and Wednesday replied. Bianca smiled with an edge, as if she had been struck and had decided, for the moment, not to draw a knife. Xavier sat not far away, occasionally glancing toward Wednesday, apparently waiting for her to offer more of a response.
Enid knew again.
She knew Wednesday was looking at the clue, not the person. She knew Wednesday had absolutely no interest in Xavier’s melancholy-filtered affection. She knew Wednesday would find the whole “someone understands your darkness” routine a waste of time unless that understanding led to a murderer, a monster, or an effective escape route.
She even knew that if Xavier ever actually said, “I understand you,” Wednesday would probably answer, “How unfortunate. That suggests your comprehension is even poorer than I estimated.”
It was funny.
Enid should have laughed.
She did not.
Yoko watched her for a while.
“You know she doesn’t like him at all, right?”
Enid turned to her at once.
“Of course I know.”
“You know very loudly.”
“I’m not jealous.”
Yoko took a slow sip of her drink.
The pause was malicious. Extremely malicious. Vampires loved using the advantage of longevity to create social pressure.
“I didn’t say you were jealous,” Yoko said.
Enid closed her eyes.
Ajax said very quietly, “Does it count if she said it herself?”
Yoko said, “It counts.”
Enid snatched up a napkin and covered her face.
“I hate both of you.”
“No,” Yoko said. “You hate that Xavier’s hair looks like a tragic male lead’s when the light hits it.”
“I did not notice his hair.”
“Then why were you glaring at it?”
Enid pulled the napkin down. Her cheeks were already red.
“I just think he was standing too close.”
“Wednesday makes it very clear when she doesn’t want someone close to her,” Yoko said. “Usually in ways that cause long-term psychological damage.”
“But sometimes she doesn’t,” Enid said.
After the words came out, she went quiet before anyone else could.
Yoko’s expression softened by a fraction.
Enid looked down at the tomato she had stabbed to death. Its skin had wrinkled around the tines of her fork like a tiny flag of surrender. She suddenly felt a little ridiculous. Not because she had no right to feel anything, but because she could see Xavier’s failure perfectly clearly and still feel that ache in her chest from all of Wednesday’s unclear pauses.
“She doesn’t always push people away,” Enid said. “If she thinks they’re providing useful information, or if she’s still evaluating, or if she doesn’t realize they’re being… like that.”
“Courting her?” Yoko supplied.
Enid made a face.
“Don’t make it sound like a medieval proposal.”
“Xavier already has that energy.”
Ajax nodded. “He would look good standing in the rain.”
Enid couldn’t help laughing a little. But after she laughed, the sourness in her chest was still there.
“I know she doesn’t like him,” she said.
“I really know that."
"But sometimes, when she doesn’t reject him, I start wondering if maybe she hasn’t rejected me either only because she’s like that with everyone.”
The table went a little quiet.
Yoko did not immediately make a joke.
Ajax, with rare wisdom, did not drop his spoon.
Enid quickly folded her napkin, pretending she had developed a sudden interest in napkin geometry.
“Forget it. Don’t mind me. I’m being kind of stupid today.”
“You’re not stupid,” Yoko said.
Enid looked at her.
Yoko set down her drink, her voice unusually serious.
“You’re just in love with someone who writes emotional responses like fragments of an ancient spell. It’s difficult to interpret.”
Enid laughed again, softly this time.
“That metaphor is really accurate.”
“I know.”
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
Botany class had not even begun that afternoon before Enid already had the sense that the day had no intention of being merciful.
When Ms. Thornhill announced the groups, Enid heard Xavier’s name and Wednesday’s name placed in the same one.
Enid decided this had to be some private act of malice from the universe. Or maybe Ms. Thornhill simply enjoyed watching chaos develop in controlled environments. The greenhouse air was heavy with moisture, rain collected along the glass ceiling, and the light fell through the leaves in cut-up pieces. Today’s lesson involved a species of vine that reacted to emotional fluctuations. It wrapped itself around anxious students, avoided bored ones, and showed a deeply unnecessary curiosity toward those with crushes.
This plant should have been banned from the educational system.
Enid had been assigned to another table with Ajax. She tried very hard to focus on the plant in front of her. The vine, however, kept curling toward her wrist, as if her emotions were an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“It really likes you,” Ajax said.
“It has no taste.”
“That’s usually how Wednesday compliments plants.”
Enid glared at him.
Ajax raised both hands. “I’m shutting up.”
From the next table came Xavier’s voice.
“Careful. This kind of vine is drawn to the scent of blood.”
“If you believe I require that elementary information,” Wednesday said, “I will have to reassess your survival prospects in this class.”
Xavier seemed to laugh.
He actually laughed.
Enid did not like that laugh.
Not because Xavier had done anything wrong. He had not. He just liked Wednesday and did not realize he was doing it in a way that felt painfully visible. That was not exactly a crime. If liking Wednesday were a crime, Enid herself would probably be locked in an extremely colorful cell.
“I was just reminding you,” Xavier said.
“The value of a reminder depends on whether the recipient lacks the information.”
“Then maybe next time I’ll remind you of something you don’t know?”
Wednesday paused.
Enid’s heart paused with her.
Wednesday said, “That would be your most ambitious attempt to date.”
Bianca snorted from another table.
Xavier looked down, as if deciding whether he should be wounded or whether the fact that Wednesday had continued the conversation counted as a victory. Enid did not know either. That was exactly the problem. Wednesday was sharp with everyone, but sometimes her sharpness could be misread as intimacy.
Worse, Wednesday did not seem to notice.
The way she said those things to Xavier was different from the way she told Enid, “Your plush animals are conducting a silent colonization.” Enid could hear the difference. The former was genuine dismissal. The latter held a familiarity Enid was not ready to admit she recognized.
But other people could not hear it.
Xavier might not hear it either.
It made Enid feel as if she were holding a translation only she could read, and the original author had not signed off on it.
She used the pruning shears on the vine.
Snip.
Ajax looked at her.
“I don’t think that one needed cutting.”
“It does now.”
The vine withdrew at once, apparently sensing a threat to its continued existence.
Halfway through class, Xavier somehow cut his hand. The wound was shallow, but the scent of blood immediately caused several nearby plants to become overenthusiastic. Wednesday lifted a hand and pinned one of the vines down with the precision of someone restraining a snake.
“Do not drip blood on the experimental materials,” she said.
Xavier looked at her hand holding the vine in place.
“Are you always this concerned about experimental quality?”
Wednesday looked up.
“No. I am also concerned about whether stupidity is contagious.”
Bianca laughed again.
Enid wanted to laugh, too.
She really did.
But while Xavier lowered his head to deal with the cut, Wednesday pushed a small piece of clean gauze toward him. She did not even look at him. She simply took it from beside the tools and placed it within his reach, as if relocating a necessary supply.
The gesture was too small.
So small that no one should have interpreted it at all.
Unfortunately, Enid saw it.
And she knew Wednesday would do the same for anyone who was bleeding if their blood threatened the experimental materials. She knew. She knew. She knew so thoroughly she was beginning to irritate herself.
The vine suddenly wrapped around her wrist.
Enid looked down and saw that the plant had produced one very small, very offensive pink flower.
Ajax looked at the flower.
“Uh.”
Enid’s face went instantly hot.
“Do not say anything.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is usually not that expressive.”
“It is today.”
From the next table, Wednesday’s gaze suddenly turned.
Enid immediately tried to hide her wrist behind her back.
Too late.
Wednesday had already seen the flower. Something shifted in her eyes, like a gear in an otherwise stable machine catching for half a second.
“Your plant has bloomed,” Wednesday said.
Enid wished the floor would split open and swallow her, the plant, and the entire botany class whole.
“Yeah.” She tried to make her voice light. “It’s very ambitious.”
Wednesday looked at her.
Xavier looked at her.
Bianca looked at everyone, her expression suggesting she had just been given a free performance.
Ms. Thornhill clapped her hands. “Excellent, Enid. A very vivid emotional response.”
Enid wanted to transfer schools.
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
After dinner that night, Enid did not return to the room.
She went to Yoko’s instead.
It was not because she wanted to punish Wednesday. At least, that was what she told herself at first. She just needed somewhere without the sound of a typewriter, without the black-and-white dividing line, without someone sitting in the shadows with a perfectly innocent face while making Enid feel complicated enough to bite a pillow.
Yoko was polishing a pair of sunglasses.
“You again.”
“I can leave.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t welcome.” Yoko lowered her feet from the chair. “But every time you say, ‘I can leave,’ what you actually want is for someone to say, ‘You can stay.’”
Enid threw herself onto the rug beside the bed.
“Are all vampires this annoying?”
“We’ve had centuries to practice.”
Enid hugged her knees. At dinner, she had seen Wednesday glance once toward the seat Enid usually occupied. Just once. Brief enough to be mistaken for general observation. Enid had almost softened on the spot, then immediately felt annoyed at herself for almost softening.
That was the worst part of all this. Her reason kept standing on Wednesday’s side, while her emotions paced around inside her chest like a young wolf refusing to go back into its cage.
Yoko watched her for a while, then softened her voice. “What did she do?”
“She didn’t do anything.”
“That’s usually the worst kind.”
Enid was quiet.
She did not want to seem petty. Xavier had not done anything wrong. Wednesday had not done anything wrong either. From an objective standpoint, there was not even a clear victim here—only one overly sensitive, overly bright, overly invested girl who had managed to make herself miserable over a piece of gauze and ten seconds of eye contact.
“She doesn’t know,” Enid said.
“Doesn’t know what?”
“That Xavier likes her.”
Yoko’s expression clearly said: how could she possibly not know?
Enid immediately added, “Or she knows, but she doesn’t know that it makes things weird. Or she knows it’s weird but doesn’t think it needs to be addressed. Or she doesn’t realize that not rejecting him might look like acceptance. Or she—”
“Enid.”
Enid stopped.
Yoko put her sunglasses down on the desk.
“What you actually want to talk about isn’t Xavier.”
Enid buried her face in her arms.
This was why she hated Yoko. Sometimes Yoko was too accurate. Accurate in the way someone reached into Enid’s chest, pulled out the thing she didn’t want to look at, and set it right on the table.
“I know she doesn’t like him,” Enid said, her voice muffled.
“I just… don’t know if she likes me.”
After that sentence came out, the room was quiet for a while.
Yoko did not comfort her immediately.
That was better, somehow.
Enid was not sure she could handle anything too gentle right now. Too much gentleness would make her cry, and after having a vine publicly expose her emotional state in botany class, she had very little dignity left.
“Have you asked her?” Yoko asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she would start demanding that I define like and then ask whether I mean physical attraction, emotional preference, social priority, or the impulse to keep vigil beside someone’s corpse.”
Yoko couldn’t help laughing.
Enid laughed too, small and tired.
“And because I’m afraid she’ll say no,” Enid added.
This time, Yoko did not laugh.
Enid lifted her head and looked at the dark poster taped to the ceiling.
“I know she’s different from other people,” she said. “I know the way she cares is weird. But sometimes I don’t want to keep using knowing as a way to comfort myself.”
Yoko leaned back in her chair.
“Are you staying here tonight?”
Enid thought about it.
“Can I?”
“You can,” Yoko said. “But if you start howling in the middle of the night, I’m throwing you into the hallway.”
Enid grabbed a pillow and threw it at her.
Yoko caught it easily.
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
Wednesday discovered at 9:13 p.m. that Enid had not returned to their room.
According to verifiable conditions, this did not constitute a crisis.
Enid had the right to leave the room. She had other friends. She possessed basic self-preservation skills. These facts arranged themselves very neatly, neatly enough to become almost irritating.
Wednesday sat at her typewriter, the page halted halfway through an unfinished sentence.
She stared at that half sentence for five minutes without typing another word.
The paper sat innocently in the roller, like a corpse with an obvious cause of death and no one willing to sign the certificate.
She stood and inspected the room. Enid’s bed was below its usual standard of neatness, suggesting emotional instability or insufficient time upon departure. Her colorful slippers were gone. Her jacket was gone. Her phone charger remained, indicating that she intended to return, or at least had not planned a long-term escape. On the desk lay her notes from botany class. Beside them was one pink petal.
Wednesday picked up the petal.
The vine bloomed in response to strong emotion.
Enid had produced a strong emotional response in class today.
The emotion was related to Xavier, Wednesday, or both.
Enid had not returned to the room that evening.
At lunch, Enid had not responded to Ajax’s low-quality joke with her usual excessive friendliness.
After botany class, Enid had answered Wednesday’s question too quickly and used at least three unnecessary smiles.
The data was sufficient, sufficient enough to lead her to an unpleasant conclusion.
Enid had not left without cause.
She had been pushed away by something Wednesday had failed to address.
Wednesday placed the petal inside a small glass box.
Not to preserve it.
Only to prevent the evidence from becoming damp.
Then she left the room.
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
Yoko looked entirely unsurprised when she opened the door.
“She’s inside,” she said.
Wednesday looked at her.
“I did not ask.”
“You’re standing at my door like a lost-and-found notice capable of homicide.”
“Your metaphor is inferior to Enid’s.”
Yoko raised an eyebrow.
“Wow. Is that a compliment to her or an insult to me?”
“The two are not mutually exclusive.”
Yoko stepped aside.
Enid was sitting on the rug, wrapped in a deep purple blanket, clutching a pillow against her chest. When she looked up and saw Wednesday, something startled flickered across her eyes before being quickly covered by a kind of stubbornness. That confirmed one thing for Wednesday: Enid had not been unwilling to be found. She had simply not wanted to appear too easy to find.
This kind of psychological behavior lacked efficiency, but it was not uncommon.
“Hi,” Enid said.
Wednesday looked at her.
“You did not return to the room.”
“I know.”
“Your charger is still there.”
“I know.”
“If you intended to stay elsewhere, your battery management was insufficient.”
From the side, Yoko muttered, “Suffocatingly romantic.”
Wednesday looked at her.
Yoko raised both hands. “I’ll be in the hallway. Don’t break my furniture.”
After the door closed, only the two of them remained.
Yoko’s room resembled Enid’s half of their dorm in certain ways. Too many colors. Too many objects. The air smelled faintly of hairspray, perfume, old books, and the coolness peculiar to vampires. But this was not Enid’s room. That made Wednesday uncomfortable. Enid was sitting on someone else’s rug, wrapped in someone else’s blanket, holding someone else’s pillow, like an item that had been misfiled.
Wednesday quickly determined that this thought was not suitable for verbal expression.
She was learning.
The results were limited, but present.
Enid hugged the pillow tighter.
“You didn’t have to come find me,” she said.
“Is that a literal statement, or do you want me to refute it?”
Enid opened her mouth.
She seemed, for a moment, about to say forget it. But then she stopped. Wednesday saw her choosing. The choice produced an unpleasant tightness somewhere in her chest, because she suddenly understood that Enid had stopped in this same place many times before and then chosen the version easier for someone else to handle.
This time, Enid did not.
“I want you to refute it,” Enid said.
Wednesday remembered that.
“Coming to find you was necessary.”
Enid looked down at the edge of the pillow.
“Why?”
Wednesday was silent for a moment.
Instinct told her that answering, “Because your emotional anomaly caused the plant to bloom,” was probably not the optimal opening. She pushed that answer back down.
A few weeks ago, she likely would have presented the botany-class bloom as primary evidence. Now, at least, she knew that some evidence, while accurate, should not be introduced first.
“Because you were not in the room,” Wednesday said.
Enid waited.
“And?”
Wednesday’s fingers tightened slightly at her sides.
This conversation felt like walking through a tomb without a map. She knew some of the stones would collapse beneath her, but not which ones. She hated not knowing. She hated even more that Enid had that expression because she did not know.
“Because I wanted to know where you were,” Wednesday said.
Enid looked up.
“Just because of roommate safety?”
Wednesday looked at her.
She could say yes.
It would be safer. More precise. More consistent with the categories she had always used.
But Enid had stood in a gray area for too long today. Gray was unfair to Enid. She liked excessive colors, but that did not mean she should be forced to live inside unclear answers.
“No,” Wednesday said.
Enid’s breath softened.
Wednesday continued, “Xavier’s behavior today possessed courtship characteristics.”
Enid nearly choked on air.
“You knew?”
“I am not dead.”
“You act very much like it sometimes.”
“That is one of my virtues.”
Enid glared at her.
Wednesday lowered her eyes slightly, looking at a loose thread in the rug. She was not certain how to order the following information without making Enid feel, once again, like an appendix to an analytical report. She could handle cases. She could handle corpses. She could handle testimony that contradicted itself across a timeline. She was less equipped to handle Enid Sinclair sitting on a rug with reddened eyes, attempting to disguise caring with a pillow.
“I know his intention,” Wednesday said. “But I did not classify it as a threat requiring intervention.”
The corner of Enid’s mouth moved.
“You called him a threat?”
“Inaccurate. He is more like a recurring environmental disturbance with limited destructive capacity.”
This time, Enid really laughed.
After the laugh, she lowered her head again.
“But sometimes you don’t push him away.”
“I have not accepted him.”
“I know,” Enid said.
The three words came quickly.
And tiredly.
Wednesday looked at her.
“You know, but you are still upset.”
Enid went quiet.
From anyone else, that sentence might have sounded clumsy, maybe even too blunt. From Wednesday, it felt like a piece of evidence finally labeled correctly. Enid did not have to keep pretending she was only annoyed by Xavier, or keep packaging the sourness in her chest as a logically unassailable analysis.
She nodded.
“Yeah,” Enid said. “I know, but I’m still upset.”
Wednesday’s gaze did not move away.
“Reason?”
Enid took a breath.
“Because he gets to like you in a way that’s obvious,” she said. “He gets to bring you drawings and say he’s worried about you and stand beside you like he has some kind of qualification. I know you don’t like him. But at least he knows what he’s doing.”
Wednesday said nothing.
Enid looked up. Her eyes were a little red, but her voice was clear.
“I don’t know if I have any qualification.”
The air in the room became very quiet.
Wednesday suddenly thought of the little pink flower that had bloomed from the vine that afternoon. It had been Enid’s emotion, recorded honestly by an external object. It had not mocked or analyzed. It had simply bloomed. Enid herself, however, had tried to hide the same thing inside jokes, napkins, too-quick answers, and someone else’s room.
Wednesday felt a cold, sharp remorse.
Not toward Enid.
Toward herself.
She could identify Xavier’s courtship behavior, yet had not realized her failure to address it could look like permission to Enid. She could know Enid understood everything rationally, yet had not considered that reason was not an analgesic. She could categorize Xavier as an environmental disturbance, and still had nearly allowed Enid to believe she had no qualification to receive a clear answer.
Wednesday Addams did not like making mistakes.
Especially not this kind.
“Xavier has no qualification,” she said.
Enid blinked.
“Uh, that might be a little—”
“He may approach when he is providing information. Outside of that, no.”
Enid looked at her.
Wednesday’s voice was steady, like she was reading out a verdict from which no appeal would be accepted.
“His emotional expectations do not constitute an obligation. His concern does not alter my schedule. His attention will not cause me to reclassify him. If he uses language of shared experience again, I will make him regret retaining the capacity for speech.”
Enid should have stopped her.
She really should have.
But she kind of wanted to laugh.
Wednesday looked at her, her voice lowering slightly.
“You are different.”
Enid’s smile stopped.
“Different how?”
Wednesday hated the question, because there were too many answers, and none of them were precise enough.
Enid was different because her voice remained in the room even when she was not there. Different because changes in her emotions made it impossible for Wednesday to continue working. Different because when her smile stopped, Wednesday automatically reviewed the past three minutes for anything she might have said incorrectly. Different because when Enid went to Yoko’s room, the room did not become quiet; it became missing some necessary component.
In the end, she chose a version she could say aloud.
“I adjust,” Wednesday said.
Enid’s eyes widened slightly.
Wednesday looked directly at her.
“For other people, I usually do not consider adjustment necessary.”
The sentence did not sound like anything anyone would write in a love letter.
It lacked sweetness, lacked ornament, and severely lacked the chaotic sincerity expected of a teenage confession.
But Enid understood it anyway.
She lowered her head, tucking her chin against the pillow, her voice muffled.
“You’re really weird.”
“You have submitted the same observation multiple times.”
“I’m going to keep submitting it.”
“I will add it to the long-term data.”
Enid laughed.
The sourness in the room did not disappear completely, but it settled somewhere less likely to cut. Enid still knew Wednesday had no interest in Xavier. Now she also knew one more thing: Wednesday’s failure to push him away was not acceptance, and Enid’s uncertainty was not stupidity.
It just needed to be said.
Enid used to think knowing was enough. Wednesday probably had not even thought that far before.
They sat on Yoko’s rug, separated by one pillow and too many things that had not yet been named, and for the moment neither of them pretended this was easy.
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
The next morning, Xavier came looking for Wednesday again.
This time, it was in the hallway. Enid happened to be standing beside her, still holding her notes from botany class and trying to look as if she had not entered a state of defensive readiness in advance. She had returned to the room last night after all. Before closing the door, Yoko had given her a look that said, you two are annoying, but at least you’re not boring, and then announced that if she was disturbed by another midnight emotional conference, she would start charging fees.
Wednesday had not objected to Yoko’s pricing system.
She had simply let Enid walk ahead, keeping a distance that was closer than usual without being intrusive. They had barely spoken on the way back. The hallway lights were dim, and Enid’s slippers made small sounds against the floor. Listening to them, Wednesday suddenly understood that she had previously considered silence neutral. Now she realized that the silence of Enid not being there and the silence of Enid being too tired to speak were not the same thing at all.
She did not say this discovery aloud.
But she remembered it.
Now, Xavier held out a new sketch.
“I saw something else last night,” he said. “I thought you might want—”
“Put it on the table,” Wednesday said.
Xavier stopped.
“What?”
Wednesday did not take the paper.
“If it is evidence, put it on the table. If it is emotional projection, keep it for your diary. If it is courtship, I suggest you stop, because your chances of success are lower than the odds of being adopted by a campus statue.”
The hallway went quiet.
Enid slowly lowered her gaze to her notebook, using the cover to hide the corner of her mouth.
Xavier’s ears turned red. “I’m just trying to help you.”
“Then increase the density of information and reduce the personal agenda.”
Bianca passed by, stopped for one second, and smiled with great satisfaction.
“Cruel before breakfast, Addams?”
Wednesday looked at her.
“I have not yet eaten. Therefore, I am exercising approximately thirty percent restraint.”
Bianca looked at Enid.
“You listen to this all the time?”
Enid lowered her notebook, failing to suppress the corner of her mouth.
“Actually, that one was pretty good.”
Wednesday did not look at her.
But her fingers moved slightly at her side.
A very small movement.
Almost no one would have noticed.
Xavier looked at them with a faintly confused expression, as if he had finally realized there was a conversation happening in front of him, and he had not been given the language key.
At last, he placed the sketch on the nearby table and left with what remained of his dignity.
Bianca, satisfied with the entertainment, moved on as well.
The hallway returned to its usual noise. Students passed around them. Some lowered their voices to discuss what had just happened; others pretended not to have witnessed Xavier Thorpe being dismissed with a line about the odds of being adopted by a campus statue.
Enid could not say the ache had disappeared completely.
She had not been given an official position. She had not been given an answer she could take back to Yoko and show off. Wednesday had simply stood in the hallway and, in her usual terrifying, precise, deeply unsocial way, pushed Xavier one step outward.
But that step had not been for Xavier.
Enid could tell.
Wednesday was still Wednesday. Her attitude toward the world had not suddenly grown soft edges, and she had not developed a belated respect for social etiquette. She had only shifted that coldness in the correct direction, like moving a blade away from Enid and toward the misunderstanding that actually needed cutting.
That small deviation might not have meant much to anyone else.
For Wednesday Addams, it was nearly geological movement.
Wednesday did not immediately start toward class.
She turned to Enid.
“Do I need to mark your special classification in front of him?”
Enid nearly crushed the notebook in her hands.
“No! You do not need to mark me in the hallway!”
Wednesday frowned.
“Last night, you stated that unclear qualification was causing distress.”
“I meant I didn’t know what I was to you, not that I wanted you to publicly install a classification sign in front of Xavier Thorpe!”
“A classification sign would be efficient.”
“Wednesday.”
Wednesday was clearly unconvinced.
She took one step forward.
The step was not large, but it was enough for Enid to immediately remember the heart-disordering disasters of the past few weeks: Wednesday reaching out to measure her temperature, leaning too close to examine her pupils, touching her wrist without any warning whatsoever, and sincerely believing that all of this was simply reasonable interpersonal data collection.
Enid’s back hit the bulletin board behind her.
Wednesday looked at her.
No.
Not looked down at her. They were actually almost the same height, and from certain angles Enid might even be slightly taller. It was just that when Wednesday moved close, she always gave the impression that the space had been seized by her, as if the entire hallway had been forced to lower its volume and wait for her to announce a conclusion that was both profoundly inappropriate and extremely serious.
“You do not need to retreat,” Wednesday said.
“I do.” Enid’s voice came out a little too high. “Because you look like you’re about to do something in the hallway that will make me die of social embarrassment today.”
“The probability of death is low.”
“That is not the point!”
Wednesday’s gaze dropped to the space beside Enid’s shoulder, then moved to her hand. It was a very familiar, very dangerous order of observation. Enid could almost see the options arranging themselves inside Wednesday’s mind: holding hands, touching her shoulder, standing even closer, or doing something even more terrible that would make Xavier and the entire hallway understand that Enid Sinclair did not belong to the general classification.
Wednesday raised her hand.
Enid immediately caught her wrist.
“No.”
Wednesday stopped.
She looked at Enid’s hand around her wrist, then back at Enid’s face.
“You do not yet know my intended action.”
“I know you,” Enid said, her face hot enough to burn. “That’s enough.”
Wednesday was quiet for one second.
That sentence seemed more effective than the act of stopping her. Her hand did not move forward, but she did not pull it back either. Enid, still holding Wednesday’s wrist, suddenly realized this position was not exactly discreet either.
Someone in the hallway slowed down.
Bianca, who had already walked away, slowly turned back as if she had caught the scent of blood.
Enid released Wednesday at once.
“Private,” she said under her breath. “If you really have to… do some kind of classification correction, do it in private.”
Wednesday looked at her.
“Then I will conduct the private marking after we return to the room.”
Enid’s mind went blank for a moment.
She had only meant to stop Wednesday from doing something in the hallway that would render her incapable of facing the bulletin board for the rest of her life. She had not expected Wednesday to interpret private as a change of location rather than a cancellation of the request.
Even worse, her heartbeat seemed to express clear support for this misunderstanding.
“Wait, did you just say—”
“A temporary measure,” Wednesday said. “A private document must be issued now.”
“I understand even less now.”
“That is precisely why documents exist.”
Wednesday had already taken the small notebook from her uniform pocket. Enid had seen that notebook before. It usually contained case notes, toxin reactions, suspect behavioral patterns, and a few lines that sounded as if they had been written for a future crime scene. Wednesday flipped to a blank page, tore off a small piece of paper, and took out her pen.
Enid immediately had a very bad feeling.
“What are you doing?”
“Correcting cognitive distress caused by unclear qualification.”
“Wednesday.”
“Last night, you stated that Xavier appeared to possess some form of access qualification, while you were unable to determine whether you possessed one.”
Enid’s face began to heat again.
“That did not mean you actually had to—”
Wednesday had already started writing.
She wrote quickly, her handwriting neat and calm, as if she were drafting a very small death certificate with legal force. Enid wanted to stop her and wanted to know what she was writing. These two impulses collided inside her, and in the end she simply stood there and watched as Wednesday handed her the paper.
On it, Wednesday had written:
Enid Sinclair is permitted to interrupt, question, approach, and request explanations regarding my interpersonal responses.
This permission does not expire.
Enid stared at the paper.
The sound of the hallway seemed to move farther away.
“You…” she began, then stopped.
Wednesday looked at her with excessive seriousness.
“The wording can still be revised. I originally considered adding ‘provided this does not endanger an investigation or immediate survival,’ but that might weaken the document’s effectiveness.”
Enid’s lips moved.
She wanted to laugh.
She also wanted, a little, to cry.
In the end, she only said very quietly, “You can’t give people things like this in the hallway.”
Wednesday frowned.
“Why?”
“Because normal people would think it was weird.”
“You confirmed multiple times last night that I am not normal.”
“I know.” Enid accepted the paper, folded it carefully, and tucked it into her jacket pocket. “That is not a counterargument.”
Wednesday’s gaze remained on the pocket, as if confirming the document had not been mishandled.
“It is not a love letter,” she said.
Enid looked up at her.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“It is also not a formal contract.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
“Unless you wish it to carry contractual force.”
Enid finally laughed.
That laugh was not hidden behind her notebook, and she did not turn her face away to conceal it. It simply lit up in the hallway, carrying a little of last night’s lingering ache, a little sweetness from being struck by the absurd, and something else she could not quite name.
Wednesday watched her.
After the laugh, Enid took a small breath.
“I don’t need a contract,” she said. “But I’m keeping it.”
Wednesday nodded, as if this were an acceptable outcome for the moment.
When they began walking toward class, Wednesday adjusted her position on her own. It was not a large movement, and there was no drama in it. She simply shifted from slightly ahead of Enid back to Enid’s side, close enough that their sleeves occasionally brushed.
Enid noticed.
This time, she did not wonder whether it was an accident.
She knew Wednesday too well. Wednesday was not incapable of moving close to her; that had never been the problem. The problem was that she often moved close with too much certainty, as if once the classification was correct, distance no longer needed to submit to ordinary social review.
But this time was different.
Wednesday did not reach out. She did not pin Enid against the bulletin board. She did not mark her in any way that would make Enid want to immediately dissolve into the floor. She only placed herself back at Enid’s side, close enough for Enid to recognize, controlled enough for Enid to choose to remain.
She stood there because she had chosen to stand there.
And because Enid had just said: private.
“You know,” Enid said softly, “this might be the weirdest thing anyone has ever given me.”
“Imprecise assessment.”
“You want the precise version?”
Wednesday looked ahead.
“Yes.”
Enid slipped her hand into her pocket and touched the folded piece of paper. It was thin, the edges faintly indented where the ink had dried. It was not hot cocoa. It was not a flower. It was not anything anyone would call romantic.
But it was something Wednesday had wanted her to be able to read.
“It’s weird,” Enid said. “And it’s very you.”
Wednesday did not answer.
But she did not move her sleeve away.
Enid knew better.
Unfortunately, this time, knowing had begun to feel a little more like comfort.