Chapter Text
Time.
Time for Wednesday Addams was merely an instrument. A medium for her to reach her goals. She had always organized her time in a way that made it nothing but efficient—no room for waste, no space for lingering moments. Her life had been filled with schedules and plans.
For 26 years, Wednesday Addams never felt as though she had lost any time. Every single moment of her time was spent doing something with purpose.
She was an accomplished author. Her three books were all best sellers and her life had been nothing but a series of events that left her fulfilled.
But now, time was pressing in on her, pushing her forward in a way she wasn’t sure she was ready for.
She was uncharacteristically late, although it wasn’t her fault.
Yoko was getting married to Divina and unfortunately Wednesday had been invited, and worst of all she was also the maid of honour for Divina.
Over the years, they had bonded thanks to their shared passion: true crime.
Honestly, Wednesday would have never imagined that she would form this unexpected friendship, with someone like her, but apparently she wasn’t the only one surprised, both Yoko and Enid had raised their eyebrows the day Wednesday confessed she didn’t actually hate Divina.
“You like her,” Enid had gasped, hand dramatically clutched to her chest. “You like-like her.”
Wednesday had glared. “I tolerate her. Don’t get carried away.”
They had formed this weird friendship bond after one of the many dinners she and Enid shared with the couple. While Enid and Yoko would rant about the latest gossip Divina and Wednesday would sit at the far end of the table, picking apart unsolved disappearances, debating the psychological profiles of infamous serial killers, and quietly judging everyone else’s dessert choices. It was… oddly comforting. Morbid , yes—but comforting.
Divina wasn’t much of a gossip anyway.
Divina was sharp, in that precise, scalpel-like way that Wednesday respected. She never sugar-coated anything, never hesitated to say what others wouldn’t. Wednesday liked that. Or at least she liked it enough to not loathe being in her presence. Which, by her standards, was practically friendship.
But now, in the most ironic twist of fate, she was sprinting— well, power-walking grimly —through the hallway of her and Enid’s, well now former for the latter , apartment with a velvet box clutched tightly in her hand.
The wedding rings.
Two slim, custom-made bands that Enid had forgotten , because of course she had.
She had called Wednesday less than an hour ago, breathless and panicked, voice shrill through the speaker: “I know you’re already on your way, literally in the car and more than half way to the venue, but I need you to do something for me. I—I left the rings at home. I swear I had them last night. Please, Wends, you’re the only one I trust with this.”
Wednesday had said nothing for a long second. Then: “I’m deducting this from your emotional debt.”
“Take my soul, I don’t care, just please—hurry.”
As for Enid, their relationship had always been the most stable thing in Wednesday’s life, other than her closest family.
She had needed five years, with Enid’s incessant bother, to finally define their relationship, as something more than acquaintances -- well technically using Enid’s terminology they were best friends .
And it took another five years for Wednesday to accept that she wanted more.
Not that she had ever said something to Enid.
It had been ten years of… something. A decade of layered meaning. Of movie nights where their knees brushed and neither moved. Of road trips with playlists curated to make Enid smile. Of birthdays spent together, of comfort offered wordlessly on hard days. A life that had folded around Enid like she was a fixture, like she was inevitable.
But Wednesday had never said it aloud. Never risked the fragile balance they’d created with her own feelings.
And now here she was, ten years deep and still doing the emotional labor of people who refused to keep track of priceless objects.
When she reached the venue, people were already seated, murmuring, craning their necks for a glimpse of the bridal parties. She slipped in through the back entrance with a precision that would make any stage manager weep with joy. A coordinator rushed over the second she was spotted, relief blooming on her face as she snatched the ring box from Wednesday's hands.
“Thank you,” the woman whispered with an exhale. “We were about to stall with a unity candle. God, that would’ve been so cheesy.”
“I’m sure the trauma would’ve bonded them further,” Wednesday replied flatly, smoothing a wrinkle from her dress and walking off before the woman could respond.
She spotted Enid near the dressing area, dressed in peach coloured dress as one of the bridesmaids. She looked like she’d just won a battle—hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed, adrenaline still crackling at her fingertips.
When her eyes landed on Wednesday, she lit up.
“You got them?” she whispered, hurrying over.
Wednesday lifted the box in one gloved hand. “As promised. Your eternal salvation.”
Enid exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in an hour. “You’re amazing. I owe you. So, so much. I’ll—I'll name my firstborn after you. Or my first pet. Whichever happens first.”
“I accept both. But if it's the child, make sure she learns more than a language.”
Enid chuckled. Then, after a beat, her voice softened. “Thanks, Wends. Really .”
Wednesday glanced at her, and for a split second, all the noise of the wedding fell away. Enid looked at her like she was the only person in the room.
Wednesday took her time.
Just—looked.
Enid’s dress was something she would have mocked under any other circumstance: soft, pastel, and unapologetically romantic. Peach , of all colors.
But on Enid, it worked.
Of course it did.
The color brought out the warmth in her skin, the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. Her curls were just messy enough to look effortless, pinned back on one side with a pearl clip that sparkled every time she turned her head.
She looked like springtime.
Like poetry.
Wednesday, in contrast, was a shadow in black—tailored suit sharp enough to cut glass with a golden tie pin, the only pop of colour in her entire outfit. Her hair was down for once, as Enid advised her ( forced her ), to style it differently for once. Even though she was way out of her comfort zone, she felt herself.
And yet, she also felt strangely unarmored.
Maybe it was the way Enid was looking at her. Like she hadn’t just saved the ceremony, but had reached into the chaos of her day and steadied her.
Like she was her anchor.
“You really pulled through,” Enid said again, quieter now, her voice a little shaky with leftover nerves—or maybe something else. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t picked up.”
“You would’ve cried,” Wednesday said, a faint smirk ghosting over her lips. “Then improvised. Then spiraled.”
Enid made a face. “Accurate.”
Then came the silence again. But it wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was heavy. Expectant.
Wednesday studied her.
Not just her face, but all the pieces she had memorized over the years. The way Enid bit the inside of her cheek when she was trying not to say something. The way she played with the hem of her dress when she was nervous. The way she stood too close, always, and never seemed to realize it.
And suddenly, the thought that she might never get to do this again—that tomorrow, Enid would be gone—settled into her chest like ice.
Tomorrow, Enid will be leaving for London.
And this made Wednesday wish that Enid wasn’t as skilled at her job as she was. After all, if she were a mediocre reporter, the BBC wouldn’t have come to Boston to recruit her.
But they did.
And how could Enid refuse them when they presented her with an opportunity of a lifetime?
“You look beautiful,” Wednesday said quietly, before she could stop herself.
Enid blinked. “What?”
“You look beautiful,” she repeated, firmer this time, meeting her eyes. “In that ridiculous dress.”
For a heartbeat, Enid just… stared. And then her expression softened into something that almost made Wednesday look away.
Almost.
“I—thank you,” Enid said. “You clean up nice yourself. Suit looks good. I love what you did for your hair, you finally listened.”
Wednesday almost rolled her eyes at that, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. Not when Enid was looking at her like that.
“I didn’t listen,” she said coolly. “You nagged. There’s a difference.”
Enid grinned. “You look good, Wednesday. Seriously . …well… you always look good, but you know what I mean.”
And there it was again—that quiet ache, that almost. The moment that balanced on the edge of something bigger, something unsaid. If she reached for it, it might all come undone. Or fall into place.
But before either of them could say more, the first notes of the piano echoed through the hall—soft, reverent. The ceremony was beginning.
Enid’s eyes widened. “Crap. That’s our cue.”
She looked back at Wednesday for half a second longer than she should have—something unreadable passing behind her smile—then hurried off, disappearing behind a corner in a blur of satin and curls.
Wednesday stood there alone, staring at the spot Enid had just been.
She didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
The music swelled gently, the kind that was meant to evoke emotion from the crowd.. But all Wednesday could feel was the tightening in her chest.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Enid would be gone.
Not for a week. Not for a short trip. Gone.
London wasn’t just a plane ride away. It was an entirely different world. A world full of nights in pubs, and BBC studios and streets filled with fog. A world where Enid would build her future.
Wednesday had always known how to prepare for things. She wrote outlines, drafted endings. She sharpened her plans like knives.
But she had no preparation for this—no mental script that accounted for a version of her life where Enid wasn’t just a call away.
They were best friends, for god’s sake , but it had been years since they were only just that.
She got so used to having Enid in many facets of her life, and now she had to get back used to a life without someone who would bother her nonstop, a life without colours, a life without her.
A life where she wouldn't walk through the door unannounced, with her dirty converse on, holding two coffees and a chaotic story about her morning. Where she wouldn’t hear her laugh across a crowded café, or feel her warmth just... there. Beside her.
The image of Enid in that stupid peach dress, hair wild and cheeks flushed, looking at her like she hung the stars—that would haunt her.
And it would be all she had.
Because Wednesday knew herself. Knew the part of her that had kept everything bottled up for so long. The part that wanted to say it now— Don’t go, stay, please just— But didn’t.
Because she was Wednesday Addams. She didn’t beg. She didn’t confess.
And she didn’t break her own rules.
But as she stepped out into the ceremony space, the sunlight filtering through stained glass, the rows of guests standing in reverent silence, it hit her, all at once.
She took her place beside Divina, whose face was alight with joy. The officiant cleared his throat, beginning the ceremony with warm words about love and connection and destiny.
Wednesday barely heard any of it.
Her eyes, as if tethered, drifted back to the bridesmaids.
To Enid.
Who was already watching her.
Their gazes locked—and for the briefest moment, time stuttered again. Not because of panic. But because of feeling.
Everything Wednesday had buried for years clawed its way to the surface in that look. The weight of a thousand moments left unspoken.
The ache of too many ‘almosts.’
The burn of every time she had told herself, not now. Not yet.
And the finality of tomorrow whispered in her ear like a curse.
Tomorrow, Enid will be gone.
And time, time was no longer her tool.
It was her enemy.
And it was running out.
Vows were exchanged, hands trembled with emotion, and soft laughter bubbled through the pews like champagne. It was beautiful—everything Yoko and Divina deserved.
But to Wednesday, it passed in a blur of white lace, gold rings, and the ever-present pulse of dread at the back of her throat.
Tomorrow.
When the final applause broke the hush of the hall and the newlyweds kissed, Wednesday clapped on instinct, not thought. Enid, from across the space, was still watching her. She smiled—soft, private, like it was just for Wednesday—and for the briefest second, Wednesday let herself smile back.
It was almost unbearable.
-
-
Later, at the reception, the champagne flowed too freely and the dance floor slowly transformed into a kaleidoscope of twirling dresses, half-empty glasses, and laughter.
Yoko’s family and the rest of the older vampires were sat further away from the reception, Divina’s family instead was on the other side. In the middle, Wednesday and Enid sat with their friends and some other people that they didn’t know, but she knew for sure that by the end of the night, Enid would become friends with.
The golden hour painted everything in honeyed hues, and somewhere between the clinking of glasses and the string quartet switching to a lo-fi pop remix, Wednesday found herself pulled into the crowd with Enid at her side.
They ended up at a small round table near the garden doors, tucked half in shadow, half bathed in the fading glow of sunset. The kind of table people forgot about when the dancing started, making it perfect for Enid to catch her breath—and for Wednesday to brood in peace.
Enid kicked off her heels the second they sat, groaning in relief. “I swear, whoever invented stilettos had a personal vendetta against women. Or ankles.”
Wednesday didn’t look up from her glass of dark red wine. “Likely both.”
Before Enid could launch into another rant, two strangers approached the table—friends of Divina. One of them had a dramatic swoop of indigo eyeliner and a vintage camera hanging from her neck; the other wore a velvet blazer and had a laugh that sounded like it belonged in a jazz bar.
“Mind if we join you?” the camera girl asked brightly. “The other tables are full of relatives. We’re trying to avoid another round of unsolicited life advice from Yoko’s Aunts.”
Enid grinned and gestured at the empty seats. “Please, save yourselves.”
They sat, and introductions were quick and easy. Lila and Roman—friends from Divina’s university days.
Within minutes, Enid was knee-deep in conversation with them, talking about crime podcasts, obscure horror films, and the time Wednesday and Divina accidentally uncovered a cold case during a weekend retreat they had a couple of years ago.
Enid told the story with wild hand gestures and shining eyes, and Wednesday watched her with the kind of quiet fondness she would never admit to feeling.
“She’s being dramatic,” Wednesday interjected when Enid claimed they’d almost been arrested.
“You guys were this close to being handcuffed.”
“Which was hardly the worst outcome,” Wednesday said, sipping her wine. “I’ve had worse weekends.”
Roman chuckled. “God, you two are ridiculous. You remind me of this couple I met in Prague—couldn’t go five minutes without bickering or finishing each other’s sentences.”
Enid choked on her champagne. “Oh! No—we’re not—”
“We are not,” Wednesday said flatly. “We’re... close friends.”
Roman covered his mouth in embarrassment. “Oh sorry! Our bad, we really thought you guys were a couple.”
Lila grinned into her drink, not bothering to hide the amused glance she shot between the two of them. Enid laughed, too loud and a little too breathless, brushing a curl behind her ear and saying something about how people always assume things.
But the damage was done—not in a bad way, just… the kind that leaves a ripple under your skin.
And Wednesday felt it. A tension that hadn’t been there before, or maybe had always been there, just under the surface, waiting.
-
The evening blurred into soft lights and slower music. Enid was pulled away by someone from the wedding party, dragged toward the dance floor with a shriek and a promise she wouldn’t stay long. Wednesday remained at the table, alone for the first time in hours, grateful for the silence—and for the sudden appearance of a familiar presence beside her.
Bianca.
Over the years they had kept in touch.
…Well mostly with Enid anyway.
And as much as it pained Wednesday to say, they had come to respect each other, and on some occasions, even rely. Wednesday liked that Bianca had always been honest with her, while as for Bianca, she liked that Wednesday was always true to her words, and never expected anything from her.
So it surprised Wednesday when Bianca decided to give her opinion on her own personal matters.
She slid into the seat Enid had vacated, still glowing from the ceremony, her black lipstick somehow untouched even after the champagne and chaos.
“You survived,” Bianca said, nudging Wednesday’s arm with hers.
“Barely,” Wednesday replied. “There are only so many smiling strangers and well-lit photo ops I can tolerate.”
Bianca smirked. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Wednesday didn’t respond. Just sipped her drink and let the hum of the evening settle between them.
For a moment, they sat in quiet. Comfortable. Then Bianca said, softly, “She’s going to London tomorrow, you know.”
Wednesday’s fingers stilled around the stem of her glass.
“I know,” she said. Quiet. Measured. But her throat felt tight.
They were quiet again.
And then, gently—too gently for someone usually so blunt—she said, “She’s going to London, and if you let her leave without knowing… you’ll never forgive yourself. And if she finds out later… she might never forgive you, either.”
Wednesday didn’t look at her. She stared across the reception hall where Enid was laughing with someone, her smile bright enough to break things inside her.
“It’s not that simple,” she said.
“It’s exactly that simple,” Bianca replied. “You love her. She’s in love with you. You’ve both been idiots about it for years.”
Wednesday inhaled slowly. Her chest felt heavy. “We don’t need to talk about this. You know I won’t change my mind.”
Bianca studied her for a long moment, leaning back in her chair. “You know, for someone who prides herself on strategic thinking, you’re awfully reckless when it comes to your own life.”
“I’m not reckless,” Wednesday said, setting her glass down with deliberate care. “I’m consistent. I’ve weighed the risk and determined the outcome isn’t worth the cost.”
“Which outcome?” Bianca’s gaze was unflinching. “The one where she says yes? Or the one where she says no?”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “Both.”
“That’s not caution,” Bianca said. “That’s fear dressed up in black lace.”
Wednesday finally looked at her then—cold, precise, the kind of stare that made most people retreat. Bianca didn’t flinch. If anything, her expression softened.
“She’s finally doing something for herself. I won’t ruin this for her.”
“Wednesday, she’s not a flight risk. You won’t ruin anything. You both need to have a serious conversation about what’s going on between you. It’s been long-overdue.” That made her look up. Meet Bianca’s eyes.
“I didn’t want this to happen tonight,” Wednesday admitted begrudgingly, as if the words were very hard to pronounce. “I was going to let her go.”
Bianca tilted her head. “Let her go, or push her away?”
Wednesday didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
Bianca exhaled through her nose, a sound equal parts frustration and pity. “You know, most people waste years wondering if they’ll ever meet someone who actually sees them. You already have her. And you’re pretending that’s not the rarest thing in the world.”
Wednesday’s eyes flicked back to Enid without permission. She was on the dance floor now, barefoot, spinning with Divina under the string lights. The sight was absurd. Joy distilled into motion.
“I am not pretending,” Wednesday said quietly, looking down at her hands. “I’m preserving.”
“Preserving what?” Bianca’s voice was sharper now. “The friendship? The status quo? Newsflash, Addams: that ‘preservation’ you’re clinging to dies the second she gets on that plane. It’s just going to rot into regret.”
Wednesday felt her throat constrict, starting to get agitated, almost bothered that someone as rational as Bianca didn't understand her point of view, her reasons. “If I tell her, I put her in an impossible position. If she says she feels the same, she might stay. And if she stays, she might resent me for it later. I won’t… be the reason she loses something she’s worked for her entire life.”
Bianca leaned forward. “And if she leaves without knowing? She might spend the rest of her life thinking you never felt the same. Which resentment do you think will burn longer?”
Before she could reply, a new song faded in through the speakers—slow, tender, laced with something that felt dangerously like hope. A soft guitar, warm piano, the quiet swell of sound like the hush before a confession.
Taylor Swift’s Lover .
Of course it was.
Wednesday almost rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched—an involuntary reaction to the sheer Enid -ness of it all.
The universe, it seemed, had no sense of subtlety.
She barely had a moment to sit with the irony before Enid was there again, suddenly and always—breathless from dancing, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a grin that threatened to undo Wednesday entirely. Her hair had come loose from its clip, golden waves tumbling down her shoulders, and for a second, just a second, Wednesday forgot how to breathe.
And immediately she forgot that Bianca was sitting beside her. She forgot their conversation. Her focus solely on Enid.
“Come dance with me,” Enid said, her voice still bright with leftover laughter.
Wednesday blinked. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on,” Enid urged, reaching out and curling her fingers around Wednesday’s hand without hesitation—without realizing that touch alone had already unraveled every last line of defense Wednesday had been holding. “It’s the last slow song before they switch back to party mode.”
“I’ll survive.”
Enid tilted her head, smile softening into something that was no longer teasing. “Please?”
“You want me to dance to a song about love,” Wednesday said, arching a brow. “Are you trying to be ironic or cruel?”
“If I wanted to be cruel, I’d pick Style ,” Enid teased. “Come on, Wends. Just this one. Dance with me. Properly. ”
And then she held out her hand.
Wednesday stared at it like it might combust in her palm. Like the moment itself was alive—fragile, bright, impossible.
Enid didn’t know the power she had. Or maybe she did, and she was just waiting for Wednesday to finally reach for it.
And against every rule she’d ever set for herself, Wednesday stood.
Bianca didn’t say anything, but Wednesday caught the smirk tugging at her lips as she passed.
Enid led her to the dance floor, weaving through swaying couples until they found a spot under the canopy of lights. The air was warm, threaded with the faint scent of roses from the nearby garden.
Then, with a deliberate gentleness, she placed her hands at Enid’s waist.
The connection made her chest ache. Not from nerves. From knowing —this is what she’d been avoiding.
This feeling.
This closeness.
This stupid, beautiful gravity between them.
They began to move. Tentative at first. Awkward. But then Enid laughed, low and bright, and stepped in closer. Their foreheads nearly touched. And just like that, they found a rhythm that wasn’t about the music at all. It was about history.
Their history.
They swayed to the music, neither speaking. Enid’s eyes were on her, searching, warm, impossibly open.
“You really don’t dance,” Enid said finally, her voice quiet but teasing.
“I’m making an exception,” Wednesday replied, her tone flat but thinner than usual.
“For me?”
Wednesday’s lips twitched again. “For the statistical anomaly that is you.”
Enid’s smile curved gently. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“It’s open to various interpretations.”
They swayed like it was muscle memory. Like their bodies had always known how to find each other. Like they’d been waiting for the right song, and it had finally come.
The song was winding down when the seamless glide of the playlist betrayed them.
The warm guitar faded, replaced by the thudding beat of something loud, chaotic, and aggressively unromantic—some hyperactive pop anthem that belonged in a neon-lit club, not under the golden glow of wedding string lights.
Enid grimaced almost immediately. “Ugh, no. Not my vibe.”
Before Wednesday could reply, Enid leaned in, her voice pitched low so only she could hear. “Want to go outside? Take a breather?”
Wednesday hesitated. She didn’t need a breather. But the idea of leaving this room—with its swelling music and endless pairs of eyes—and stepping into quiet with Enid felt dangerously appealing.
“Yes,” she said simply.
Enid’s smile returned, small and conspiratorial, like they were sneaking out of a lecture in high school. She laced their fingers together—casual, thoughtless—and tugged her toward the French doors at the side of the hall.
They were sitting outside next to a small iron table, the air was chilly and Enid shivered slightly, rubbing her hands along her arms. The satin of her dress, beautiful and weightless under the lights inside, offered no real protection against the bite of the night air.
Wednesday noticed immediately.
She didn’t say anything—just shrugged off her black jacket with the same ease she handled every impossible situation, and draped it over Enid’s shoulders before the girl could protest.
Enid looked up, a little surprised. “You’ll freeze.”
“I won’t,” Wednesday said simply. “My blood is legally obligated to run cold.”
Enid smiled at that, pulling the jacket tighter around her. It looked ridiculous with the peach dress, but somehow, it felt… right. Like it belonged.
The smell of Wednesday—clean linen, faint cedar, and something indescribably her, and Enid sighed, quietly, resting her chin in her hand as she looked out over the garden.
She studied Enid’s face, lit softly by the fairy lights strung across the railing. The curve of her smile. The pink at the tip of her nose from the cold.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Enid said after a moment, her voice not sad or dramatic, but simply real.
“I know,” Wednesday replied, her voice tight. “I know.”
She wanted to say something else, anything else. But it remained at the back of her throat, like a bruise.
Enid continued, chuckling. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Seven years in Boston, and now I’m just leaving.”
Wednesday remained silent for a moment. Enid kept talking, trying to make things easier, “I thought about asking you to come with me, but I knew you’d say no.”
Wednesday turned to face her, her voice quiet but unwavering, “You should have asked me anyway.”
Enid blinked in surprise. Something shifted within her. “Would you have said yes?”
Wednesday replied, “Enid, you are the only thing that would ever make me leave.”
Enid laughs, but it’s not really a laugh — more of a shaky exhale, like she doesn't know what to do with what she's just heard. Her eyes dart away, toward the skyline, glittering and unfamiliar.
“Don’t say stuff like that, Wednesday. Not now. ”
Wednesday steps closer, slow, like she's approaching a wounded animal — or maybe she’s the one wounded.
“Why not now?”
Enid’s voice is barely audible, “Because I already made peace with leaving without you.”
Wednesday studies her face. The crumple at the corners of her mouth. The way her jaw tenses like she’s holding something in.
“Enid.”
Enid whispers, “Do you want me to stay?”
Wednesday’s eyes flutter closed. Her answer is immediate. “You already know the answer.”
There’s a long pause. The kind that hums with everything unsaid. The kind that changes the shape of things.
Then Wednesday says it, low and steady.
“I want you to stay more than I want to breathe. But I won’t ask you to give up your dream.”
Enid’s breath catches in her throat. The words settle between them like an invisible weight. She takes a slow, shaky breath, turning her face to the stars above, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.
“You really do make it sound easy, don’t you?” Enid says, her voice cracking just a little. “Like we just do what’s right, even when it hurts. Like it’s just that simple.”
Wednesday doesn’t know how to answer that.
How can she? It isn’t simple. It never has been.
But somehow, it’s the only thing she’s ever truly understood: duty. The quiet pressure of doing the right thing, even if it tears you apart in the process.
“I won’t ask you to leave everything behind,” Wednesday says, her voice just above a whisper, as though afraid the wind might steal her words away. “You’ve already given so much for everyone else. I won’t make you give up something that matters to you. Especially for me.”
Enid’s eyes shimmer, but she blinks quickly, fighting it.
She presses her lips together like she’s holding back a thousand words, all tumbling into each other in her throat. Then she looks at Wednesday—really looks at her—and her whole expression shifts.
“You do matter to me,” she says. “More than anything. You’re not just something I’d be giving it up for. You’re the reason it hurts to go.”
Wednesday looked away.
Not out of indifference. Not out of coldness. But because something in her had fractured the moment Enid said you’re the reason it hurts to go , and she wasn’t sure how to hold all of that at once. Her posture stiffened—chin high, arms crossed tight like armour. She needed a wall. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe.
“This is your dream Enid, this is a once in a life opportunity. You shouldn’t have any doubts about not leaving.” Her tone is pungent. Trying to compensate for the vulnerability she showed seconds ago.
Enid flinched. Not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice—but Wednesday saw it. Felt it. Like a shift in the air between them.
“I shouldn’t,” Enid echoed, quiet now. “But I do.”
Wednesday said nothing. Her jaw was locked, throat tight with all the words she wouldn’t let out, because if she said one—just one —the rest would pour out after it like blood from a wound.
The night stretched out around them—silent, heavy, threaded with the faint hum of music from inside. Somewhere, a guest laughed. Glasses clinked. Life went on, utterly oblivious to the war playing outside.
Enid’s fingers tightened around the railing, like she needed to hold onto something solid. “Do you ever wonder,” she began slowly, “if maybe we’ve been doing this wrong the whole time?”
Wednesday’s brow furrowed. “Doing what wrong?”
“This. Us.” Enid’s voice cracked on the word, but she pushed through. “Spending years pretending like there’s nothing else here—like if we don’t name it, it doesn’t exist. Like it’s safer that way.”
Wednesday’s pulse thudded in her ears. “It is safer that way.”
“For who?”
The question landed between them like a challenge—sharp, impossible to sidestep.
Wednesday didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Enid huffed a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. “I used to think you didn’t say anything because you didn’t feel the same. Then I started to think maybe you did, but you just… wouldn’t let yourself. And now I don’t know what’s worse—that I was wrong, or that I was right.”
Wednesday’s hands curled into fists at her sides and whispered, “I can’t ask you to give this up.”
“You’re not asking,” Enid said, stepping closer now, her voice trembling but firm.
Enid’s nearness was like standing too close to a flame—warm, bright, and entirely too dangerous.
Wednesday took a measured step back. “Then let me be clear: I don’t want you to.”
The words were sharper than she intended, but she didn’t soften them. She couldn’t. If she cracked even a little, everything would spill out.
Enid’s brows drew together. “You don’t want me to…?”
“To stay.” Wednesday forced each word like a blade between her teeth. “You need to go to London. Work ennobles a man and if you give up what you love to do the most, you will resent me for it. On the other hand, if hypothetically, as you previously stated, we acknowledge this pull between us, long distance will destroy us before we even begin. If there’s anything here—which I’m not confirming—it’s not worth the slow decay that comes with airports and time zones and missed calls.”
“That’s not—”
“It is ,” Wednesday cut in, her tone low and cold, like she was speaking to herself as much as to Enid. “You’ll resent me for holding you back, and I’ll resent you for leaving. We’ll ruin everything we’ve managed to keep intact all these years.”
Enid’s jaw clenched, her eyes shining with something between anger and heartbreak. “So that’s it? You’re just… deciding for both of us?”
“I’m protecting, preserving , what’s left,” Wednesday said, voice steady but hollow.
Enid stared at her for a long, aching moment, like she was trying to find even a flicker of doubt in her face. If she did, she didn’t let on.
“Right,” Enid murmured, her voice breaking just enough to make Wednesday’s chest tighten painfully. She took a step back, her hands falling to her sides. “Guess I was wrong after all.”
Before Wednesday could say anything—before she could take it back—Enid turned and walked toward the doors, her bare feet silent against the wooden boards. She didn’t look back.
The music swelled again as the door swung open, spilling laughter and light across the veranda. Then it closed, and Wednesday was alone in the cool night air.
Still staring out the window. Still watching the light. Still pretending, just for one more moment, that she hadn’t just let the most important person in her life walk away.
The quiet came next.
But there was no breaking down. No crying. Not even a single step after her.
-
It was nearly eleven.
The party inside was still going strong—music humming low now, with laughter rising in waves, the kind of late-night joy that only happens when time stops mattering. People were dancing barefoot, heels discarded, bowties loosened, tables littered with half-empty glasses and forgotten desserts.
Wednesday slipped through the crowd, barely noticed. And then she spotted Divina, sitting alone at a small corner table, one hand cradling a glass of champagne, the other idly twisting a napkin in her lap. Her smile was calm, content—she looked like someone who had everything she wanted.
Wednesday approached, quiet but deliberate.
“Romantic solitude?” Wednesday says, approaching her.
Divina looks up, startled, then grins. “You say that like it’s a crime.”
“It’s a wedding. Everything feels a little criminal,” Wednesday replies. Then, after a pause, more softly, “You look happy.”
“I am.” Divina’s eyes soften. “It’s terrifying. But I am.”
Wednesday nods. Silence settles between them, not awkward, just... heavy with everything left unsaid. It’s Divina who breaks it first.
“You talked to her?” she asks, already knowing.
“Yes.” And for the first time, Divina could actually understand the emotions Wednesday was feeling, just by that single word.
Divina raised a brow. “I get that the conversation didn’t go that well.”
Wednesday’s gaze flickered to the side, avoiding Divina’s steady eyes. “It went… exactly as I intended.”
Divina leaned back in her chair, studying her with that unsettling mix of empathy and quiet judgment. “Which is another way of saying you sabotaged it.”
Wednesday’s jaw tensed. “I preserved it. There’s a difference.”
“Only if you redefine the word ‘preserve’ to mean ‘ push away until there’s nothing left to lose.’ ” Divina’s voice was gentle, but the words hit their mark.
Wednesday said nothing. She wasn’t sure she could speak without the truth spilling out in ways she wasn’t ready for.
Divina took a slow sip of champagne, then set the glass down with a soft clink . “You know, for someone who prides herself on being ruthlessly honest, you lie to yourself a lot.”
“I don’t lie,” Wednesday said sharply.
Divina tilted her head. “Then what would you call it? Because from where I’m sitting, you just told the one person you…” she trailed off, then chose her words carefully, “…you care for, that she means less to you than she actually does. And for what? Because you are scared? Because being away from her will tear you apart? Because you know it will.”
Wednesday’s throat tightened, but her face remained expressionless. “Long distance is a slow erosion. Better to leave the structure intact than watch it crumble.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Divina said quietly. “Another way is—sometimes you let the house fall apart, because it’s the only place you want to live.”
For a moment, Wednesday almost— almost —let herself meet Divina’s gaze. But she didn’t.
I nstead, she straightened, her tone clipped. “She’ll be happier this way.”
Divina gave a small, knowing smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “If you say so.”
“She’ll have no distractions,” Wednesday repeated, as if saying it aloud might make it true.
“She wants the distraction,” Divina countered instantly. “Some people would rather have a storm in their life than calm seas. You know that.”
Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Her career will benefit. London will give her opportunities she can’t get here.”
Divina leaned forward slightly. “And what if the opportunity she wanted most was you ? What then? Why can’t she have both?”
Wednesday ignored the heat creeping up her neck. “She’ll forget about me faster this way. It’ll be easier for her.”
Divina let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Easier? Have you met her? You don’t just fade into the background, Wednesday. You’re not wallpaper. You’re a stain. Permanent.”
A flicker of something broke across Wednesday’s features, but she smoothed it out quickly. “She’s better off not knowing—”
“She already knows.” Divina’s voice cut through the noise of the room like a blade. “She’s always known. The only one pretending she doesn’t is you.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, but her chest felt tight, constricted. “It would never work.”
“Not with that attitude, no.” Divina’s tone softened, but it didn’t lose its edge. “But here’s the thing—you’re not ending this because it wouldn’t work. You’re ending it because you don’t want to risk finding out that it could , and then losing it.”
Wednesday stared at her, unable to respond, because that—exactly that—was the thing she could never say aloud.
Divina reached for her glass again, but her gaze stayed fixed on Wednesday. “You’re brilliant, Addams. Calculated. You see ten moves ahead. But this? This was your shortest game. And you didn’t win.”
For the first time that night, Wednesday felt the faintest crack in the armour she had so carefully put up.
Divina didn’t press further. She didn’t need to. Every excuse Wednesday had built was lying in pieces on the table between them.
Wednesday’s voice was lower now. “I’ve never done this before.”
Divina smiled gently. The kind of smile you give someone who’s standing on the edge of something important.
“No one’s asking you to do it perfectly,” she said. “Just honestly.” Then she tentatively placed a hand on Wednesday’s knee. “I think that you really need to figure out how high in your priority list Enid actually is, and if you, Wednesday Addams, could ever let her go, without even trying.”
Wednesday looked away, out toward the dance floor where Enid was spinning in a loose circle with Bianca and Yoko, her laughter rising above the music like it belonged there. Like she belonged there. Her curls had come completely undone now, a riot of gold catching in the lights, and Wednesday’s chest ached just looking at her.
Wednesday’s eyes tracked Enid’s every move, even as she tried to force herself to look away.
“She’s… absurd,” she murmured before she could stop herself.
Divina’s brows lifted. “Absurd?”
Wednesday exhaled slowly, as though dragging the words up from some place she’d buried them deep. “Absurdly kind. Absurdly stubborn. Absurdly radiant, in a way that makes the rest of the world look like a pale imitation.”
Divina stayed quiet, sensing that if she spoke too soon, the moment might fracture.
“She infuriates me,” Wednesday went on, her voice barely audible over the music. “She makes noise where I crave silence, warmth where I am comfortable with cold. And yet… I would burn in her sun until there was nothing left of me.”
Divina’s expression softened. “That sounds a lot like love, Wednesday.”
The word landed between them like a stone in still water—ripples spreading outward, unstoppable.
Wednesday blinked, a faint tension in her throat. “Perhaps. I don’t think that I could ever live without her incessant presence. But I have, all these years. Pretending it doesn’t exist. Pretending I don’t feel it. Pretending that silence between us is safer than words… She’s my best friend,” she said softly. “The only person who’s ever really… seen me.”
Divina softened again. “You think you’re protecting her, but you’re just leaving her in the dark. Enid’s not afraid of hard things. She’s afraid of being unwanted.”
“She’s never been unwanted,” Wednesday said sharply, almost before she realized she was speaking.
“Then tell her that,” Divina said, reaching across the table, touching her hand. “You don’t have to beg her to stay, it wouldn’t be right. Just let her know you’d miss her. Let her know it’s real.”
Something in her cracked open, quiet and seismic.
And then, without another word, she stood.
She moved with purpose now—through the crowd, past the blur of bodies and laughter and music that no longer mattered. Her pulse thundered in her ears, not from fear, but from something deeper. Urgency. Clarity.
She looked back out across the dance floor.
At Enid.
And her heart, which had always been so careful, so contained, so untouchable—was no longer quiet.
She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t promise anything.
But when she stood, it was with purpose.
And when she moved, it was toward her.