Chapter Text
Enid knew she wasn’t destined for something great.
She has always had that inkling ever since she was a little girl who wondered why her mom’s face would drop when looking at her, or why her dad would swiftly change the conversation about how people's days were when it inevitably got to her.
When she was younger, she couldn’t figure out whether her parents didn’t think she would amount to anything or if they always thought she would just be something more. Which ultimately left her in a precarious situation where even she wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was or how to become the person her parents needed her to be.
It wasn’t like she didn’t try to become something more; in fact there were hundreds of things she did that stated the opposite - good grades. Debate club. Student council. Anything that made sure her exhaustion could be worn like proof of effort. When she reached breaking points, she stepped over them. When she got sick, she pushed through them. Hoping – just hoping - If she could just become impressive enough, perhaps their faces would change.
They never did.
It infuriated her in her early teens. She became abrasive and argumentative. Phrased her rage as ‘fighting back’, acting out in hopes that her parents would shout, scream: anything. Something that proved to her that her parents actually saw her. Become an overt problem in their lives not the subtle disappointment that would be introduced last at family gatherings.
By sixteen she just became depressed. Her bedroom became both sanctuary and sentence. The curtains stayed half-drawn, not enough to invite the day in, not enough to commit to darkness either. Morning and afternoon blurred. The bed stopped being furniture and became terrain. Safe. Contained. Predictable. She told herself she was resting. Then she told herself she was thinking. Eventually she stopped naming it at all. She maintained her grades with mechanical precision. Study schedules taped to the wall. Flashcards stacked by subject. Highlighters lined in color-coded rows. If she lost the one thing she was undeniably good at, then what remained?
Academics became proof of existence. A receipt for her worth
Then when she graduated and got into college to study journalism, and her parents merely stated ‘well done’: she was met with the realization that some people, her brothers especially, just seemed to have the world carved out for them.
Now in her second year of college, she had become sort of apathetic to it. Acceptant that her parents just… didn’t care.
Not like she called them enough for them to know how well she was doing, or even what she was doing these days. But she was confident that if she ever encountered them, she knew that they wouldn’t ask. Not about her editing for the University newspaper, or one of her articles published in a local magazine, or even the outstanding results she got in her first year. In full honesty she was kind of glad they didn’t care enough about her because if they did ask these questions about her successes then ultimately, they would also ask about her failures. The almosts. The quiet disappointments she kept to herself. It’s not like they were anything life-altering, but when someone's confronted with the idea that nothing they do is good enough, something that proves that they weren't not good enough can seem a lot scarier than it is. She supposed it was just easier this way.
Enid had friends who celebrated with her anyways. That was her silver lining she clung to every holiday or exam period.
Yeah, Enid was not alone at all. Afterall, it is hard for an extrovert to be alone. She prided herself in knowing she was good with people, knowing that in a room of strangers she could leave with a new friend, someone laughing at her jokes, or someone asking for her number. It was one of the main reasons she loved to go out every weekend. She simply loved how music vibrated through her ribs, the bodies pressed close, and the camera flashes catching her mid-laugh.
She learned the choreography of belonging: leaning in, throwing her head back, touching someone’s arm at exactly the right moment.
She wasn’t alone at all.
Then it would get dark. People fell into a silence where they exist among themselves, where they could huddle up and watch movies on their laptops. Where it becomes too late for a friend to call and ask to hang out.
During these moments, she was often made heavily aware of the ever-widening space on her couch and the unsaid cavity in her bed which was filled with plushies and pillows. How the walk home always feels longer than it is when you’re walking on your own. Now that is where Enid felt lonely.
She tried to fill the quiet with boyfriends at first. The shape of a body beside her was at the end of the day still a body, an arm thrown lazily across her waist, a heartbeat to listen out for. But attraction never quite arrived and being with her partner often felt like reading lines from a script she hadn’t even intended to audition for.
So, they slipped away, whether it was their fault or hers, she didn’t care. In a weird way she was always glad they were gone – until the loneliness set in, then the cycle kicked up again.
Enid told herself that everyone felt this loneliness reside next to their hearts whenever people left, or things got quiet - and they do. She was lucky enough to have it confirmed to her after drunkenly crying on Yoko’s arm that she was lonely and was met with a ‘we can all feel like that it’s just how quickly you get used to it’. It was somewhat comforting and while she could hear a voice screaming at her that a flower being pulled out of the ground was not the same as a weed - she ultimately ignored it because that would then mean she would have to deal with the emotion that lay within her veins.
So, Enid used that loneliness to fuel her motivation to do more during those times where it often creeped in. Weekday nights became revision marathons or time to write until her eyes burned. She loved the pain secretly, loved how she could write every dirty thing about herself and disguise it as artful. It gave her a lot of credit as well, labelling her as a ‘raw’ journalist someone who actually lived the experiences she wrote about – not just witnessed.
But then the loneliness began to creep in during the day, it arrived when she saw couples laughing, showed up when she was third wheeling Yoko and Divina. It was just everywhere.
So, then she picked up a job at the local coffee shop, the Weathervane more informally. There, steam could blur her vision and drown out thought; her hands were always moving, always needed. She argued that if she was busy enough, tired enough, she could mistake that loneliness for exhaustion. If she collapsed into bed already half-asleep, there would be no room for it to sit beside her.
Enid was not unemotional. She felt everything too sharp for that. She simply avoided that particular feeling.
This was her life, her way of living. And if she changed that to wonder why loneliness resided so deeply in her soul, she suspected she would find something immovable at its root. Something formed long before university parties and failed relationships. Something shaped like a dinner table where her voice had never quite belonged. - It just was how it was.
A cough pulled Enid out of the trance she was in, only to remember she was, in fact, a living being who was currently sitting in a lecture.
By the time Professor Aldridge glances up from his laptop to the clock mounted above the exit sign, half the room was already packing up. The sound of zips dragging open and laptops snapping shut drowns out anything he has to say.
Enid and Yoko had been focused on someone in the second row who had been sliding their notebook into their tote bag for the last three minutes, in a way that suggests optimism more than subtlety, wondering when they would just give up the performance and put it in their bag. The lecture has run over by five minutes, and the collective patience of the room has thinned accordingly.
Enid was only half-listening, more focused on editing a sentence in the article draft for the University newspaper open on her laptop. She wasn’t trying to be rude; there’s only just so many times you can hear someone discuss media ethics without wanting to bash your head into the table. Yoko leaned in from the seat beside her, resting her head on Enid’s shoulder, reading over all the edits, lowly humming a song which even Enid couldn’t recognize.
“If he says ‘in conclusion’ one more time, I’m walking out,” she mutters.
Enid smiles faintly. “You say that every week.”
“And every week I stay,” Yoko replies solemnly. “Character growth.”
At the front, Aldridge clears his throat: not loudly, but deliberately. “Alright,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know you’re all waiting to hear what your final for this module is going to be.”
There’s an immediate shift in the lecture theatre, nothing dramatic but the collective stilling of everyone made it seem as if time had frozen. Enid would have truly believed it too if she hadn’t seen someone who had been halfway out of their seat lowering themselves back down. Enid’s laptop screen even dimmed to black as if acting as its own statement that if Enid had to listen to anything, it was this. She tapped the trackpad absently to wake it back up, but never looked at the screen to confirm it had turned on. Instead, watching as Aldridge switched from the last slide to a blank screen.
He’s smiling. Not warmly: expectantly.
“I’m going to have you conduct an interview,” he says, clasping his hands together as though announcing something philanthropic. “With one another.”
The reaction was not explosive, it was layered. A ripple of groans amongst those Enid knew never really paid attention. A few incredulous laughs, as people began scanning the room quickly, assessing glances looking for their friends first, then safe acquaintances. Someone mutters under their breath a, “You’re kidding.” And Enid is made aware that she is lucky that she can speak to anyone, not having to worry about which partner to pick or if she would even be someone’s choice.
Yoko grabs Enid’s arm immediately. Squeezing once like she’s staking a claim.
Enid laughs. “Yoko—”
“What? I’m not getting paired with Ethan. He thinks being an alpha male is a personality.”
At the front, Aldridge raises a hand, waiting for the noise to settle. It doesn’t, but it does compress into a low, charged hum. He turns to the whiteboard instead of the PowerPoint this time, uncapping a marker, the cap clicking softly against the tray as if punctuating the act.
“The question,” he says, “is simple.” The marker squeaks faintly as he rushes as if he also wants to be done with this as quickly as possible.
What does love mean to you?
The room quiets in a different way now. Someone near the aisle lets out a disbelieving laugh. “For investigative journalism?”
Yoko leans toward Enid again. “Is this a trap? Is this about source bias?”
Enid doesn’t answer immediately. She’s staring at the board.
Love.
What does love mean to her? All she knows about it is how its seemingly never reached her. Yes, she has felt the absence of love, but does that mean she knows what love is? Or does it just mean she knows what a lack of love means?
Does she even know what she is missing in its absence?
Professor Aldridge caps the marker and turns back to them, clearly pleased with himself. “You are journalists,” he says evenly. “You are meant to ask difficult questions. Consider this practice.”
There’s another wave of murmuring, softer this time. There was less resistance now, instead people calculating how they want to get this done.
Enid cant help but feel something tighten in her stomach. It wasn’t dread, exactly, just something closer to recognition. Spilling her guts to Yoko about her absence of love was a mere Tuesday to her, but even then a conversation about what it means? It’s enough to put anyone on edge.
Beside her, Yoko exhales dramatically. “Fine,” she says. “We’ll romanticize it. It’ll be ironic.”
“Then,” Professor Aldridge continues, raising his voice slightly over the renewed chatter, “once you’ve interviewed one another, I want you to write a response piece-” The last two words are almost swallowed by the noise. He clears his throat and repeats them, louder this time. “A response piece.”
That gets their attention. There’s a collective exhale across the lecture theatre: not relief, more resignation. A few people who had started packing again, pause mid-zip as they are confronted with more information about the assignment. Someone near the back says, “This is psychological warfare.” Which got a chuckle out of Enid. Aldridge, however, seemingly ignored the commentary.
“Pairs will be assigned,” he adds calmly, glancing down at a printed sheet in his hand. “Randomly.”
Those five words seemingly break the camel’s back. The low hum collapses into something scary: a few sharp laughs, then silence spreading outward in uneven ripples. The whole class freezes with the confrontation that the social hierarchy is being disrupted. People who had half-turned in their seats swivel back to the front. Even Yoko’s fingers tighten slightly around Enid’s sleeve.
“Oh no,” she mutters.
Enid straightens in her chair. She doesn’t mind strangers, strangers are simple. Blank slates: no history, no expectations. You can curate yourself carefully from the beginning become someone bright, capable, a little self-deprecating if necessary. She’s always been good at that. Building something from nothing. Controlling the narrative before it controls her.
At the front, Aldridge adjusts his glasses and begins.
“Daniel Kim and Xavier Thrope.”
A shuffle of movement as two people glance at each other across the aisle.
“Marcus Bell and-”
Names begin to blur together. Enid only half listens out for her own name or whoever is paired with Yoko, already constructing the angles she could take to avoid the inevitably vulnerability needed for this question. Bring up romantic love versus familial obligation maybe even through some cultural frameworks. Maybe something ironic: deconstruct the concept entirely. She twirls her pen between her fingers, mind racing ahead of the moment.
“Enid Sinclair.”
Her pen stills against the page. There’s a small tightening in her chest, more from anticipation than nerves but it was still there. Unignorable.
“And Wednesday Addams.”
The name lands on Enid’s ears, differently. Not like a crash more like when wind blows directly in your ear and makes you shudder. Yoko turns to her immediately, eyes wide, already fighting a grin. “Oh my God,” she whispers.
Enid swats at her arm without looking away from the front. “Be nice,” she mutters automatically, though she can’t ignore how the original tightening in her chest has moved to her stomach, not dread, no dread would be too simple of a term, not quite. Something more alert.
A few rows down, someone shifts. Enid knows its Wednesday, yet she refuses to look at her – at least not immediately.
It wasn’t as if Enid didn’t know who Wednesday was; it would be more unbelievable if anyone on campus wasn’t aware of the enigma. Always in black. Always composed. Enid had noticed she handwrote every note in cursive and seemed completely averse to technology entirely. Enid couldn’t remember a single time she’d even seen Wednesday pull out a phone, never mind open a laptop. Wednesday never whispered to people in lectures, never laughed at the lecturer's jokes, even when they were so pathetic it was customary to laugh out of pity.
Enid had been intrigued from the beginning.
In first year, on the second day of introductory journalism, Enid slid into the empty seat beside her with a bright smile and confidence she wore like perfume. Enid had ignored her friends who beckoned her over to sit with them, instead wanting to befriend the strange girl – in full honesty, she just found her cool.
“Hi! I’m Enid,” she’d said, already preparing herself for the friendly ramble she was ready to release. “I love your-” she’d gestured vaguely at the black collar, the braids, the entire aesthetic. “-whole vibe.”
Wednesday had turned her head slowly, as if recalibrating to account for a new sound, her eyes trained on Enid in front of her.
“I am Wednesday Addams,” she’d replied evenly. Not rude, not warm, just as if she were stating a fact.
There had been a pause. Not awkward, exactly, just unmoving. Like Enid had thrown a ball and it had just dropped onto the floor.
“Cool,” Enid rushed out the simple recovery, shaking her head slightly more to readjust her hair. “Are you from around here?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. Enid had waited for elaboration, smiling expectantly at the girl who was eyeing her as if she was some fly on the wall. But it never came.
She’d walked away from that conversation mildly bewildered but determined, she couldn’t imagine someone could be that uninterested in connection. Surely there was a way in, Enid was just using the wrong approach.
There hadn’t been.
Over the following weeks, she’d learned that Wednesday spoke only when she had something important or needed to say. How she never filled the silence just to soften it, instead preferring the awkward tension that left people fidgeting. That when people laughed around her, she did not mirror it, instead observing how people reacted to whatever caused the laughter. How some would look around, panicked that they hadn’t understood it, but still laughing and how others would turn to look at another as they laugh.
It was all so clinical and detached, Enid couldn’t figure out whether she enjoyed being on this side of the scrutiny or hated it because all that Wednesday was scrutinizing was the epitome of Enid.
Yoko had informed her later, after Enid had rambled for ages over the silence of the girl, “That’s just Wednesday. She’s allergic to small talk. And possibly joy.”
Enid had laughed then, but she couldn’t help but still find herself watching. Not in a romantic way, at least that’s what she told herself.
Yeah, Wednesday was pretty, but Enid was straight so it wasn’t like it could ever be romantic. It was more like watching a locked door and wondering what existed behind it. It was mere admiration for how Wednesday moved through campus untouched by the currents that pulled everyone else along, she seemed self-contained. As if she was complete. Enid would be insane NOT to admire that.
Now, as the lecture hall settles back into restless murmuring, she risks a glance over her shoulder. She shouldn’t really be surprised when she sees that Wednesday is already looking at her. There’s no annoyance in her expression, no visible dread either, just that steady assessment of Enid, which she hasn’t decided whether to like or not. Enid swallows her nerves as she forces a grin, easy and rehearsed, and she walks towards Wednesday.
“Well,” Enid says lightly, forcing brightness into her voice. “Guess we’re about to get very emotionally vulnerable.”
“I am free Wednesday,” Wednesday replies evenly, seemingly ignoring the small talk. “If that works for you?”
Enid blinks. A laugh slips out before she can stop it which causes Wednesday to tilt her head, precise, almost birdlike with eyes narrowing a fraction. She didn’t seem offended, which Enid was grateful for, just confused.
“Sorry, sorry,” Enid says quickly, lifting her hands in surrender. “I just… it’s kind of funny, you know. Your name’s Wednesday. You’re free on Wednesday. It’s-”
“Yes,” Wednesday says flatly. “That is generally how calendars function.”
Enid presses her lips together to stop herself from laughing again. “Right. Sorry once again.”
A beat.
“Do you know where the Weathervane is?” Wednesday asks.
“Yeah, I actually work-”
“Two p.m.,” Wednesday continues smoothly, cutting across her. “Unless that presents a conflict.”
Enid pauses, she’s not used to being interrupted so bluntly: especially without an apology quickly following it. Most people aren’t so brash when speaking to someone they barely know, small talk always being a crutch people rely on, Wednesday doesn’t seem to see the need in it. Enid is thrown for a second, wondering if she should find the action rude but she can’t help but find it refreshing – not having to perform, not having to file her edges down.
“It’s fine,” Enid says, recovering. “Two p.m. at the Weathervane. On Wednesday.”
Wednesday gives a small nod, as if the matter is now closed. She offers Enid no smile, no “see you then.”, no attempt at friendliness. Just a certainty as sharp as a knife.
Enid watches her turn back toward the front of the lecture hall, posture straight, braids falling perfectly down her back like they are glued there. There’s something almost unsettling about how self-contained she is, how she requires nothing from anyone else. Not reassurance over her place in the world, not even validation that she is doing the right thing. Enid wonders, briefly, what that must feel like, then she looks down at her notebook and writes:
Interview - Wednesday Addams. - What does love mean to you?
The word sits on the page, stubborn and heavier than it should be. For a moment, just a flicker, she imagines what it would be like asking Wednesday that question: how there would be a dark, thoughtful pause she would take before providing an answer that sounds like a thesis rather than a confession.
She doesn’t know why the thought makes her nervous.