Chapter Text
Wednesday Addams had always believed that romantic comedies were the genre of film closest to a slow-acting poison.
Horror films, at the very least, were honest. Murder mysteries possessed structure. Tragedies acknowledged that the world was fundamentally devoid of mercy; romantic comedies, however, insisted on pretending that the most catastrophic problems in human existence could somehow be resolved through a misunderstanding, a cup of coffee spilled across someone’s shirt, a confession in the rain, and a deeply unhygienic public kiss.
Wednesday regarded this with profoundly serious contempt. In her opinion, narratives like these not only insulted the audience’s intelligence, but also diminished every more meaningful form of human suffering.
Unfortunately, Enid Sinclair loved romantic comedies.
To Wednesday, this remained one of the few massive irreconcilable fractures in their otherwise impossible friendship. Enid adored bright, idiotic stories overflowing with misunderstandings and coincidences, especially the kind where two protagonists were obviously in love with one another yet still required two entire hours before finally kissing in an airport, at a dance, or beneath dramatic rainfall simply because they were catastrophically oblivious.
Every time the leads ran toward one another during the final ten minutes, Enid’s eyes lit up like a young wolf glimpsing the full moon for the first time; meanwhile, every time Wednesday sat beside her, she found herself seriously considering whether dying from self-inflicted suffocation via decorative pillow might legally qualify as a reasonable protest against vulgar narrative structure.
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
The night before everything went catastrophically wrong, Enid sat on the dormitory carpet with an absurd amount of confidence, hugging a massive bowl of popcorn while proudly announcing that tonight’s “roommate relationship maintenance activity” would involve watching a classic romantic comedy.
At the time, Wednesday was seated at her desk, twin braids hanging neatly over her chest while her typewriter remained paused midway through an exceptionally graphic murder scene. She did not even bother looking up, merely saying in a voice so calm it bordered on cruel:
“If you stop playing that film right now, I may consider writing you a tombstone inscription under three hundred words after your death.”
Enid lifted her chin without the slightest sign of intimidation.
“Thanks, but I’m not planning to die anytime soon, and this is a friendship activity.”
“Friendship should not involve psychological torture.”
“You made me sit through three hours of a black-and-white European silent film where an old man stared at a grave in the rain and then the movie just ended.”
“That was art.”
“This is art too.”
Wednesday finally looked up, black eyes filled with sincere disgust.
“That was public defamation against the very concept of art.”
Enid, however, was already thoroughly familiar with Wednesday’s methods of resistance. She did not argue. Instead, she stuffed the remote beneath a blanket and smiled with unbearable sweetness.
“You promised that this week you’d participate in at least one activity I chose.”
Wednesday had indeed promised. It remained one of the few catastrophic decisions she had made in her lifetime entirely because Enid had looked at her with wide, damp blue eyes. To this day, Wednesday still refused to admit she was affected by that expression, although Thing had once pointed out through sign language that every time Enid looked at her like that, Wednesday visibly lost several points of intelligence. Wednesday responded by locking him inside a drawer for fifteen minutes so he could “reflect on his behavior.”
In the end, she still sat down on the edge of the bed with her hands folded neatly over her knees, wearing the expression of someone being forced to attend her own funeral. The movie had not even reached the ten-minute mark before she already regretted remaining alive.
The heroine was an optimistic, clumsy young woman working in publishing, while the male lead was a cold, wealthy, emotionally repressed corporate heir who wore three-piece suits and spoke in a permanently low voice. The first time he muttered, “I don’t believe in love,” Wednesday immediately said flatly:
“If this man genuinely did not believe in love, he would not exist inside this film. The script has already sentenced him to emotional death.”
Enid laughed so hard she nearly spilled the popcorn.
“Don’t take this so seriously.”
“I am not taking it seriously. I am currently experiencing spiritual organ failure.”
The film continued. During the protagonists’ first meeting, the heroine crashed into the male lead inside a coffee shop and spilled a latte all over him. During their second meeting, they became trapped inside an elevator. During the third, the heroine mistakenly concluded that he hated her, while the male lead slowly began realizing — through encouragement from his friends — that he actually cared about her.
Enid watched with complete fascination.
Wednesday became quieter and quieter.
Then, during an especially dramatic rain sequence filmed entirely in slow motion, Wednesday suddenly stood up and walked toward the bathroom.
Enid blinked in alarm. “Where are you going?”
“To throw up.”
“Wednesday!”
“I am merely respecting my body’s honesty.”
In the end, she did not actually vomit, but that was solely because her willpower was extraordinary, not because the film deserved forgiveness. When the movie finally concluded with the two protagonists kissing in front of a crowd of applauding strangers, Enid hugged a pillow against her chest with an expression of complete emotional satisfaction, as though she had just experienced some kind of spiritual hot spring therapy. Wednesday, meanwhile, stared at the ending credits before coldly announcing:
“If an afterlife exists, and this film is available there, I will begin reconsidering whether atheism was radical enough.”
Enid collapsed backward onto the bed laughing.
That should have been an ordinary evening. Stupid, noisy, smelling faintly of popcorn, and ultimately concluding with Wednesday Addams once again feeling disappointed in human civilization. Eventually they turned the lights off and went to sleep. Enid fell asleep quickly, her breathing light and steady like some small golden creature completely devoid of survival instincts. Wednesday remained awake a little longer, sitting silently in the dark while replaying the film in her mind and attempting to understand why Enid found stories like that enjoyable.
Eventually, she arrived at a conclusion:
Enid Sinclair’s brain likely possessed some kind of pathological dependency on sweetness, misunderstandings, and background music.
Then she fell asleep.
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
The first thing Wednesday noticed the following morning was the light.
The dormitory should not have been this bright. Nevermore mornings were usually filled with damp fog and dark tree shadows, the entire academy resembling something freshly unearthed from a crypt; yet now, sunlight poured into the room at an intensely unnatural angle — soft, golden, dreamlike enough to become actively disturbing. The curtains fluttered as though touched by some nonexistent breeze, and the air even carried the scent of vanilla and freshly baked waffles.
Wednesday slowly sat upright.
The next second, background music began playing.
Her expression darkened instantly.
It was a cheerful, idiotic melody overflowing with acoustic guitar and tambourines, as though some suicidal music director had seated himself beside her bed solely to remind the audience that something adorable was going to happen today.
Wednesday turned toward Enid.
Enid was also sitting upright in bed, her hair looking as though it had recently been kissed by a small tornado, her face still full of half-awake confusion. After staring at each other for three seconds, Enid carefully asked:
“You heard that too, right?”
Wednesday’s voice was terrifyingly calm.
“If you are referring to the soundtrack that sounds like colorful candy committing collective suicide, yes.”
Enid’s eyes widened slowly.
At that exact moment, the dormitory door burst open.
Yoko leaned into the room wearing a pair of gigantic sunglasses completely incompatible with her usual sense of style, holding two cups of takeaway coffee while radiating the exaggerated energy of someone recently possessed by an unknown force.
“Good morning, you two idiots who still haven’t realized you’re perfect for each other.”
Wednesday froze.
Enid shrieked, “Yoko?! What are you doing?”
Yoko completely ignored her horror and shoved one coffee into Enid’s hands before offering the other toward Wednesday.
“This,” she declared dramatically, “is your first romantic-plot-progression accident of the day. Statistically speaking, one of these drinks should end up spilled all over someone within the next three minutes, resulting in emotionally charged physical contact and unnecessary staring.”
Wednesday looked down at the coffee as though it were an explosive human organ.
“I refuse.”
Yoko smiled knowingly.
“The plot does not accept refusal.”
The moment she finished speaking, Ajax came sprinting down the hallway carrying a stack of papers, looking exactly like a comedic side character who had only just remembered he was supposed to appear in this scene. Without warning, he crashed directly into Enid, Enid stumbled into Wednesday, and the coffee arced through the air in the most painfully cliché slow-motion trajectory imaginable.
Wednesday’s reaction speed was fast enough to catch flying knives, dodge arrows, and determine the ideal corpse disposal location within three seconds. Yet this time, her body seemed pinned in place by some invisible force, leaving her no choice except to watch the coffee spill directly toward her.
Warm liquid splashed across her black shirt.
The background music immediately shifted into suggestive violins.
Enid lunged toward her in panic, frantically trying to wipe the coffee away with napkins.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!”
Wednesday looked down at Enid’s frantic movements, then at the faint blush rising across her face because she had leaned too close. Suddenly, Wednesday experienced a deeply irrational physical reaction somewhere in her chest. This was not the first time Enid had invaded her personal space — it was not even the most recent time — yet beneath that damned violin soundtrack, while sunlight struck Enid’s golden hair at an aggressively romantic angle, Wednesday briefly lost control over both her gag reflex and her heartbeat.
She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly.
“I may require medical assistance.”
Enid immediately looked up in alarm. “Did you burn yourself?”
“No. I am developing feelings.”
The hallway fell silent instantly.
Enid’s face flushed so red it looked almost incendiary. Beside them, Yoko slowly began applauding while still wearing her sunglasses. Ajax, meanwhile, stared down at the papers in his hands with complete confusion, as though he had no idea why he had even appeared in this scene.
When Wednesday finally opened her eyes again, she somehow looked even paler than before.
“What did I just say?”
Enid answered quietly. “You said you were developing feelings.”
Wednesday’s throat moved once.
Then she turned and walked directly toward the bathroom.
Enid hurried after her. “Are you going to throw up again?”
“This time, I may actually succeed.”
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
They quickly realized the situation was far worse than a particularly aggressive morning prank.
The entirety of Nevermore had changed.
No — not the building itself. The stone walls remained stone walls, the hallways remained hallways, and the raven statues still stood ominously in every corner; but everyone inside the academy now behaved as though they had been shoved into the script of a romantic comedy, each of them assigned the role of a functional supporting character responsible for advancing the emotional development of the protagonists. Bianca had somehow transformed into the glamorous rival who unexpectedly supported romance. Divina became the mysterious observer whose primary purpose involved offering fashion advice and emotionally insightful one-liners. Ajax, unsurprisingly, evolved into the recurring trigger behind every accidental disaster.
Even worse, nobody seemed aware that anything was wrong.
“We’ve been cursed,” Wednesday concluded calmly while standing in the corner of a hallway.
Enid hugged her books against her chest, her cheeks still slightly pink from the coffee incident.
“Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”
Wednesday looked at her.
“Last night I dreamed that I was being hunted through a cemetery by resurrected Puritans. That was significantly more rational than this.”
“But...” Enid glanced nervously toward the opposite end of the corridor. A group of students had somehow formed two perfectly symmetrical lines, as though preparing to part dramatically and create a pathway of destiny for them. “This really does feel exactly like that movie from last night.”
Wednesday’s expression deteriorated instantly.
“Do not speak of it.”
“I didn’t say the title.”
“You referenced it conceptually.”
Enid pressed her lips together, visibly trying not to laugh.
Wednesday narrowed her eyes at her.
“You should not be laughing right now.”
“I know, but the way you said ‘referenced it conceptually’ was genuinely really funny.”
“Sinclair, we are trapped inside a nightmare constructed entirely out of clichés, heterosexual narrative debris, and inexpensive background music, and somehow you still find this amusing.”
Enid tried to suppress another laugh and failed completely.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you really do sound like the emotionally unavailable protagonist being forced into a romance plot.”
“I refuse to become a protagonist.”
The moment she finished speaking, the hallway intercom crackled to life with the principal’s voice, now disturbingly sweet in tone.
“Attention students: Following lunch today, a paired cooperative baking activity will be held. All students who are clearly destined for one another but have not yet admitted their feelings are strongly encouraged to attend.”
Wednesday slowly lifted her head toward the speaker.
“I’m going to dismantle it.”
Enid immediately grabbed her sleeve.
“Wait! We should figure out the rules first.”
“The rules are obvious,” Wednesday replied coldly. “This world is attempting to force us into low-budget romantic scenarios, and my intended response is arson.”
Unfortunately, the arson plan failed immediately, because Yoko and Divina appeared from opposite ends of the hallway the next second like two emotional advisors summoned directly by the screenplay itself.
Yoko removed her sunglasses solemnly.
“You cannot escape destiny.”
Divina nodded.
“Especially not the paired baking sequence. That is an essential emotional development stage.”
Wednesday looked toward Enid.
“I may genuinely vomit now.”
Enid lowered her voice.
“But the paired baking thing sounds kind of cute.”
Wednesday turned toward her with agonizing slowness.
Enid immediately raised both hands in surrender.
“I know this isn’t the right moment! But you can’t blame me, this kind of thing is literally designed for me!”
Wednesday closed her eyes as though enduring medieval torture.
“I do not blame you. In the same way one does not blame a mouse for walking into a mousetrap. Their intellectual limitations are simply unfortunate.”
“You can insult people properly again.”
“Because the nausea is temporarily overpowering the romantic attraction.”
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
After lunch, they were forcibly dragged into the baking activity.
The word forcibly did not mean anyone threatened them with weapons. Rather, the entire school somehow united with terrifying efficiency to prevent them from escaping. When they attempted to hide inside the library, they discovered a sign hanging on the front entrance reading CLOSED DUE TO EXCESSIVE ROMANTIC TENSION. When they tried returning to the dormitory, the staircases inexplicably redirected them back toward the cafeteria. Wednesday even attempted climbing out a window at one point, only to discover a choir of students outside rehearsing wedding songs while looking up at her with disturbingly radiant smiles.
“I’m beginning to miss the Hyde,” Wednesday said calmly.
The baking classroom had been decorated like some kind of frosting-themed hellscape. The tables were covered in flour, strawberries, chocolate, and pink heart-shaped molds. Wednesday stared at the molds with the same expression she normally reserved for analyzing blood spatter patterns at crime scenes.
“This is not baking,” she declared. “This is evidence of the regression of human civilization.”
Meanwhile, Enid had already picked up an apron, eyes bright with excitement.
“But we can make cupcakes.”
Wednesday looked at her.
Enid held out another apron toward her — black fabric with white letters printed across the front:
KISS THE COOK.
Wednesday’s expression went completely blank.
“No.”
Enid bit down on her lip, visibly trying not to laugh.
“The plot assigned it to you.”
“The plot deserves public execution.”
In the end, Wednesday still put the apron on. Not because she had surrendered, but because refusing to wear it resulted in Yoko standing nearby with the deeply intolerable expression of someone witnessing “the protagonist resisting destiny.”
The baking process became a disaster exactly as expected.
For reasons nobody could adequately explain, Ajax had somehow been assigned responsibility for handling the flour. The moment he approached, Wednesday already knew something catastrophic was about to happen. Sure enough, three seconds later, an entire bag of flour exploded open, white powder erupting through the room like the cheapest form of snow ever invented by romantic comedy cinema.
Both she and Enid were covered instantly.
Enid let out a startled noise. Flour dusted her hair, her eyelashes, even the tip of her nose, making her resemble a wolf that had just rolled directly out of winter itself.
Without thinking, Wednesday reached out and brushed the flour gently from Enid’s nose.
The motion was so soft that even she froze afterward.
Enid froze too.
The background music swelled again.
This time, it was a painfully delicate piano melody.
Wednesday’s hand remained suspended in the air, fingertips lingering less than an inch from Enid’s cheek. Enid looked up at her with blue eyes full of confusion, nervousness, and something else — something dangerously sincere that should not have felt this real inside such an absurd situation.
Wednesday felt her stomach twist violently.
Not because of disgust.
That realization made her want to vomit even more.
“I need to leave.”
Enid spoke quietly.
“Are you okay?”
“No. I am currently experiencing the frosting-themed version of psychological torture.”
She turned to leave, only for Bianca to block her path. Bianca wore an elegant apron of completely unknown origin and held a whisk with the calm authority of the emotionally insightful rival character designed to force the protagonist into self-awareness.
“Addams,” Bianca said coolly, “you cannot spend the entire story running away.”
Wednesday stared at her coldly.
“You are being controlled by the narrative.”
“Maybe,” Bianca admitted, lifting her chin slightly. “But I can still tell that you like her.”
Behind them, Enid made a sound that resembled someone choking on oxygen.
Wednesday’s expression became dangerous instantly.
“If this were the normal version of you, I would respect your observational skills. Unfortunately, you are currently nothing more than a puppet operated by cliché storytelling.”
Bianca shrugged.
“Puppets can still tell the truth.”
The sentence struck something inside Wednesday far harder than she expected.
She fell silent.
And standing there amid flour and frosting, Enid suddenly stopped smiling too.
It was the first moment since arriving in this world that the two of them became genuinely quiet.
The background music still attempted to force the atmosphere into romance, but something during that moment no longer felt entirely scripted. It felt too real — too similar to the strange silences that already existed between them back in normal life, hidden beneath sarcasm and constant verbal sparring.
Wednesday hated that realization.
Because she suddenly understood the cruelest part of this curse was not its vulgarity.
It was the fact that the vulgarity worked.
The narrative used the most painfully overused clichés imaginable to force every emotion she normally kept rationally compartmentalized directly in front of her face. She could mock the coffee accident. She could despise the background music. She could ridicule paired baking activities and heart-shaped molds with complete sincerity.
But she could no longer deny that every time Enid moved close to her, her body reacted before her mind could intervene.
She could not deny wanting to brush the flour from Enid’s nose.
And she definitely could not deny that for one catastrophic second, she had wanted to kiss her.
That realization made Wednesday feel almost angry.
Because she was not developing feelings due to the plot.
The plot had merely removed every available hiding place.
.·.··.·.··.··.·.·.·
The final disaster of the first day occurred near sunset.
According to Yoko, they were now required to participate in something called “The Sunset Lakeside Walk.” The moment Wednesday heard the phrase, she genuinely braced one hand against the wall and dry-heaved. Enid immediately panicked and began patting her back, only for Wednesday to rasp coldly between breaths:
“I’m fine. My body is simply attempting to expel this storyline from my system.”
Enid looked worried at first, then inevitably started laughing again.
“You’re trying really hard to stay alive.”
“This is the most difficult task I’ve faced all year.”
In the end, they still made it to the lake.
The sunset was unnaturally beautiful. Golden light shimmered across the water, while the breeze drifted softly around them like some film crew had spent an unreasonable amount of money renting industrial wind machines. In the distance, two swans glided slowly across the lake.
Wednesday stared at them.
“They’re actors,” she muttered darkly.
Enid laughed so hard her shoulders shook.
They continued walking along the lakeside for a while without speaking. This silence felt different from the panic of that morning, and different from the forced romantic tension inside the baking classroom. Instead, it resembled those rare quiet moments that occasionally appeared during their normal life together — moments where Enid kicked absentmindedly at loose stones while Wednesday walked beside her, twin braids shifting gently in the wind, wearing the same expression of profound disappointment toward the universe she carried almost constantly.
After a long time, Enid finally spoke in a small voice.
“How do you think we’re supposed to get back home?”
Wednesday did not answer immediately.
The truth was that she already had a theory. Every romantic comedy followed the same loathsome but strangely reliable structure: accidental meeting, forced proximity, emotional escalation, supporting characters interfering aggressively, misunderstanding, then finally some public or semi-public kiss that functioned as the narrative unlocking mechanism. She hated the fact that she could analyze such a terrible formula so accurately.
She hated even more the conclusion slowly forming in her mind.
“I’m not going to say it,” she replied at last.
Enid looked up at her.
“So you do know?”
“I have a reasonable hypothesis.”
“Then why won’t you say it?”
Wednesday stared out across the lake, her voice becoming quieter.
“Because verbalizing it will increase the probability of it happening.”
Enid slowed to a stop.
Apparently, she had figured it out too.
The sunset softened her features, making her expression gentler than usual. She did not panic the way she had earlier that morning, nor did she laugh the way she had inside the baking classroom. Instead, she simply looked at Wednesday quietly, as though finally seeing something genuinely important hidden beneath all the absurd narrative manipulation surrounding them.
“Does this scare you?” Enid asked softly.
Wednesday’s first instinct was to say no.
She wanted to dismiss everything as a cheap curse. She wanted to insist that she could never be frightened by a world assembled entirely from low-quality romantic tropes. She wanted to say that the truly horrifying thing was humanity’s willingness to consume stories like this voluntarily.
But in the end, she didn’t.
Maybe this world made lying more difficult.
Or maybe Enid’s eyes were simply too gentle.
“Yes,”
Wednesday admitted quietly.
Enid did not laugh at her.
Instead, she slowly reached out and lightly touched the back of Wednesday’s hand.
This time there was no coffee, no flour, no accidental collision, no ridiculous narrative gimmick forcing them together. The background music still drifted faintly through the distance, but for the first time it seemed almost irrelevant. Wednesday lowered her gaze toward Enid’s hand and suddenly felt the entire world become suffocatingly quiet.
And just as she was about to turn her hand over and hold Enid’s properly —
The lakeside announcement system crackled violently to life.
“Attention, protagonists. Tonight’s Destiny Dance will begin at eight o’clock. Attendance is mandatory. Please note: avoiding the final kiss scene may result in narrative repetition.”
Wednesday slowly lifted her head.
Every soft emotion vanished instantly.
“I’m going to murder the intercom.”
Enid stared at her for one second before finally bursting into helpless laughter.
Wednesday watched her laugh and once again felt that awful warm ache bloom inside her chest — soft, dangerous, and profoundly mistimed.
She closed her eyes and endured it for three full seconds.
Good.
She had not thrown up.
That probably meant she was adapting.
Or possibly that the situation was getting significantly worse.
.·.··.··.··.·.·.·.·.·.··.··.··.·.·.·.
Wednesday Addams attempted to escape the plot for the seventh time that evening.
The first attempt involved blowing up the lakeside intercom system.
Since the afternoon, the thing had continuously announced that “The Destiny Dance will begin shortly” in a voice so disturbingly sweet it bordered on psychological warfare. Soft piano and swelling strings accompanied every announcement, as though the entire universe were eagerly awaiting the moment when two idiotic protagonists would finally kiss. By the third repetition, Wednesday had calmly returned to the dormitory and retrieved explosives.
Unfortunately, Thing appeared from nowhere, smacked the fuse directly out of her hands, and immediately signed a sentence with infuriating speed.
“You currently resemble the type of protagonist who insists she hates love right before falling into it first.”
Wednesday slowly turned her head toward him.
Her expression was so calm it almost suggested she might already be mentally calculating dismemberment angles.
“If you possessed a complete body,” she said quietly, “I would sink you into the bottom of the lake right now.”
Thing responded by delightedly signing a heart shape before disappearing into the aggressively pink atmosphere like some kind of gleeful criminal fleeing the scene of emotional vandalism.
Wednesday nearly vomited for real.
Her second attempt involved locking herself inside the library basement.
She originally believed that distancing herself from Enid, the background music, and the increasingly script-possessed student population might weaken the curse. She even brought three novels, a desk lamp, and an entire box of poisonous spider specimens in preparation for spending a completely romance-free evening underground.
Less than five minutes later, Enid’s voice appeared outside the door.
“Wednesday——?”
She stopped turning the page.
“Yoko said you might be hiding down here.”
Of course she did.
At this point, their friends had fully transformed into the most irritating supporting characters imaginable. They no longer behaved like ordinary human beings with independent personalities. Instead, they resembled emotionally manipulative NPCs controlled entirely by narrative momentum. The moment Wednesday and Enid remained separated for longer than ten minutes, somebody immediately intervened to shove them back into the same scene.
The horrifying part was that it worked.
Because Wednesday had started realizing she genuinely no longer wanted to be too far away from Enid.
That realization was more terrifying than all the background music combined.
In the end, she still opened the basement door.
Enid stood in the dim hallway holding two cups of hot chocolate. Sunset light slanted through a distant window and settled across her golden hair, making her resemble some kind of tiny sunlight-related catastrophe that absolutely did not belong inside a gothic academy. She had changed out of the flour-covered sweater from earlier and now wore a soft pale blue knit cardigan. The tip of her nose had turned slightly pink from the evening air.
The moment Wednesday noticed the drinks, her expression became suspicious immediately.
“What’s inside those.”
Enid blinked innocently.
“Hot chocolate?”
“Warm beverages in romantic comedies are usually accompanied by emotional progression effects.”
“You’ve started analyzing tropes now.”
“That is called survival instinct.”
Enid was trying so hard not to laugh that her shoulders were shaking. She held one cup toward Wednesday, and after hesitating for two seconds, Wednesday finally accepted it. Not because she trusted the narrative, but because Enid’s hands had turned slightly red from the cold wind.
She hated noticing details like that.
She hated even more the fact that she accepted the drink because of it.
The two of them slowly began walking back through the corridor while the background music inexplicably shifted into a soft piano melody. Wednesday heard the first note and immediately wanted to dismantle every suspicious audio device within a hundred-foot radius, but before she could complain, Enid suddenly spoke in a quieter voice.
“Actually... I always kind of wished you’d watch these movies with me.”
Wednesday glanced sideways at her.
“Why.”
“Because it’s fun.” Enid hugged the hot chocolate closer and smiled faintly toward the floor. “You complain the entire time, but you still always stay until the end.”
“That is because I respect your pathological dependence on low-quality entertainment.”
“There you go again.” Enid laughed softly. “You really do have an awful mouth.”
Wednesday intended to argue.
But suddenly she realized Enid was not hurt by the comment at all. If anything, she could hear genuine affection underneath the teasing. Enid liked these conversations. She liked Wednesday’s sarcasm. She liked her cold, absurd metaphors. She liked the way Wednesday constantly acted disappointed in the entire world while still sitting beside her through every terrible movie until the credits finished rolling.
That realization made something warm spread unexpectedly through Wednesday’s chest.
She lowered her gaze and took a sip of the hot chocolate.
Then immediately stopped.
It was too sweet.
Sweet enough to qualify as premeditated assault.
“Did you put marshmallows in this.”
Enid instantly looked guilty.
“...Maybe a little?”
Wednesday slowly closed her eyes.
“I hate this world.”
“But you still drank it.”
“Because you looked like you’d be sad if I refused.”
The moment the sentence escaped her mouth, both of them stopped walking.
Wednesday’s expression froze solid.
Meanwhile, Enid’s ears turned red with alarming speed.
The background music immediately swelled into a dramatic crescendo straight from hell itself.
Wednesday inhaled deeply.
“I am genuinely beginning to suspect this world is somehow listening to my thoughts.”
“O-or maybe you’ve just been way too honest lately...”
“That is significantly worse.”
Because Wednesday Addams was not accustomed to honesty.
At least, not this kind of honesty.
She was skilled at dissecting other people’s emotions, but entirely incapable of handling her own. There had never really been a concept of “normal romance” anywhere within Wednesday Addams’s personal life experience. The only relationship template she had ever witnessed closely was Gomez and Morticia Addams — two people who flirted across the dinner table with the same energy most couples reserved for planning a double homicide.
And now she was trapped inside a romantic comedy overflowing with frosting, sunsets, and prolonged slow-motion eye contact.
If Grandmama ever learned about this, she would almost certainly begin performing exorcisms immediately.
Yet the thing truly causing Wednesday’s psychological collapse was not the plot itself.
It was the horrifying realization that she was beginning to fall for it.
.·.··.··.··.·.·.·.·.·.··.··.··.·.·.·.
At eight o’clock that evening, Nevermore’s ballroom looked like the victim of a direct attack by Cupid himself. Warm golden lights hung from the ceiling in endless strands, the polished floor reflected soft glows from every direction, and a live jazz band was currently performing love songs sweet enough to induce immediate diabetes.
The moment Wednesday stepped through the doorway, she stopped walking.
“This place looks like Cupid detonated explosives inside it.”
Enid stood beside her, but she was not listening at all.
Because she was staring at Wednesday.
And Wednesday was wearing a black three-piece suit.
Not the rigid cut of her usual academy uniform, but an actual fitted formal suit tailored precisely to her frame. A black dress shirt wrapped neatly around her narrow waist. Silver cufflinks flashed beneath the ballroom lighting. Her twin braids rested perfectly over the front of her chest, making her resemble some kind of dangerously beautiful vampire heir who was simultaneously far too young, far too attractive, and entirely too lethal to belong inside a romantic movie.
For one full second, Enid genuinely forgot how breathing worked.
Wednesday noticed immediately and frowned.
“Why do you look like you’ve just been struck by lightning?”
Enid answered instinctively before her brain could intervene.
“Because you’re really hot.”
The air froze instantly.
As though the screenplay itself had prepared for this exact moment, someone in the distance even dropped a wine glass.
The tips of Wednesday’s ears turned red immediately.
It was the first time Enid Sinclair had ever witnessed Wednesday Addams malfunction because of a single sentence.
Suddenly, Enid experienced the simultaneous urge to laugh hysterically and kiss her.
“...Sinclair.”
Wednesday’s voice dropped into something low and dangerous.
“Yeah?”
“If this were not a romantic comedy universe, I would retaliate against you for that statement.”
Enid looked absurdly delighted.
“But it is a romantic comedy universe.”
“That is precisely the problem.”
In the end, they were still shoved onto the dance floor.
More accurately, the entire school collectively forced them there. Yoko and Divina pushed them toward the center of the ballroom like two malicious fairies acting on behalf of fate itself, while the band transitioned seamlessly into a slow dance melody at exactly the right moment. The surrounding students stepped away in perfect synchronization, leaving an enormous empty space around them.
Wednesday observed all of this and suddenly let out a cold laugh.
“Excellent. A public execution.”
Enid, however, did not laugh.
She simply stood beneath the warm lights, looking at Wednesday with blue eyes so soft they felt almost unreal.
“...Would you dance with me?”
In that moment, every piece of background music, every cliché, every painfully predictable romantic setup suddenly stopped mattering.
Because Enid looked too sincere.
And Wednesday possessed absolutely no defense against sincerity like that.
So in the end, she walked toward her.
The moment Enid’s hand touched her palm, Wednesday’s heartbeat became so chaotic it genuinely irritated her. She hated losing control. She hated irrationality. She hated the fact that her body consistently reacted faster than her mind.
And yet the warmth of Enid’s hand spread through her skin, and suddenly she realized she had no desire whatsoever to let go.
They began dancing together.
Or more accurately: Enid attempted heroically to guide Wednesday through dancing.
Because Wednesday’s physical coordination had primarily been developed for dodging attacks and reconstructing crime scenes, not romantic slow dancing. The first time she accidentally stepped on Enid’s foot, her expression became worse than if someone had threatened her with a knife.
“...Sorry.”
Enid’s eyes widened immediately.
“Did you just apologize?”
Wednesday’s expression instantly returned to its usual cold neutrality.
“Do not force me to retract it.”
Enid laughed so hard she nearly collapsed against her, and Wednesday instinctively wrapped one arm around her waist to steady her.
The band, apparently deranged beyond salvation, immediately intensified the romance level of the music.
Wednesday almost wanted to commit homicide.
Yet when she looked down and saw Enid smiling, she suddenly found herself thinking:
Well.
Perhaps not everything is terrible.
The realization shocked her.
Because Wednesday Addams was apparently beginning to enjoy a romantic comedy.
Her dignity was dying.
And Enid clearly had no intention of sparing her.
“You know,” Enid whispered softly, “if this really were a movie, this would probably be the point where the final kiss scene starts.”
Wednesday’s footsteps faltered for half a second.
Of course she knew.
Every narrative beat throughout the entire day had been leading them toward this exact moment. The coffee incident. The baking sequence. The sunset walk. The Destiny Dance. Every cliché had assembled itself with nauseating precision, and Wednesday had originally assumed she would resist all of it until the very final second.
But now Enid was standing directly in front of her.
Her hand still rested in Wednesday’s. Her eyes were bright. Her smile held equal amounts of nervousness and hope. She no longer looked like a plot device or narrative setup.
She simply looked like Enid.
The Enid who forced her to watch terrible movies.
The Enid who laughed too loudly.
The Enid who secretly put marshmallows into hot chocolate.
The Enid who always moved carefully closer whenever Wednesday fell silent.
And suddenly Wednesday realized she had already lost long ago.
Not to the absurd romantic comedy plot.
To Enid Sinclair.
“...I hate this,” Wednesday admitted quietly.
Enid looked at her carefully.
“Hate what?”
“You make me feel like a normal person.”
Something inside Enid’s expression softened immediately.
“Do you want to stop?”
Wednesday looked at her.
She should have answered yes.
She wanted to say this was all just a cheap curse. She wanted to insist she could never fear a world assembled entirely from terrible romantic tropes. She wanted to claim that the truly horrifying thing was humanity’s willingness to consume stories like this voluntarily.
But in the end, she didn’t.
Maybe it was because this world made lying far too difficult.
Or maybe it was simply because Enid’s eyes looked too gentle whenever she looked at her.
So when Enid slowly leaned closer, Wednesday did not step away.
The background music surged fully into its climax. Somewhere in the distance, people had apparently started applauding. Wednesday silently swore that if she returned to reality and still remembered these people, she would retaliate against every single one of them personally.
But the moment Enid’s forehead rested lightly against hers, every other sound suddenly faded away.
“You know,” Enid whispered softly, “I honestly don’t think I’d mind being trapped inside a world like this.”
Wednesday looked at her.
“I would.”
“Because you hate romantic comedies?”
“No.” Wednesday’s voice dropped lower.
“Because it lets you see how much I like you.”
Enid stopped breathing.
And then Wednesday kissed her.
The kiss was quieter than all the background music combined.
There were no fireworks. No slow motion. No dramatic rainfall suddenly descending from the heavens. There was only the velvet warmth of Enid’s lips, and the overwhelming realization that the chaos twisting inside Wednesday’s chest for the entire day had finally gone silent the instant she kissed her.
She even forgot to feel nauseous.
The world began shaking.
The ballroom lights distorted like reflections across water. The sound of the band gradually disappeared while the entire room collapsed into fragments of blurred light. Somewhere far away, Yoko could be heard screaming in triumphant delight.
“FINALLY!! I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ALL DAY!!”
Then, in the very next second, they fell directly back onto the dormitory bed together.
No background music.
No sunset lighting filters.
No paired baking activities.
Only the familiar Nevermore dorm room, quiet beneath the night sky, while Enid remained half on top of Wednesday, their lips still dangerously close together.
The silence lasted for a full five seconds.
Then Enid whispered:
“...We’re back?”
Wednesday’s hand was still resting against her waist.
“It appears so.”
“So...” Enid’s ears began turning red again. “Did that kiss still count?”
Wednesday should have responded with immediate sarcasm.
She should have claimed it was merely the condition required to break the curse. She should have dismissed it as cheap narrative design. She should have insisted that no rational person would ever take something like this seriously.
But she didn’t.
Because she suddenly realized she had absolutely no desire to deny any of it.
She looked at Enid’s eyelashes trembling nervously and then lowered her head to kiss her again.
This time, there was no plot involved.
It was simply something she wanted to do herself.
Enid immediately became so warm she practically seemed close to melting.
And somewhere between kisses, Wednesday murmured quietly:
“I still hate romantic comedies.”
Enid couldn’t stop herself from laughing.
“But you’re literally inside one now.”
Wednesday remained silent for two seconds.
Then she answered calmly:
“That is because you are the exception.”
The sentence sounded more like Wednesday Addams than any traditional love confession ever could.
And Enid realized she would probably spend the rest of her life willingly drowning inside a romantic comedy starring Wednesday Addams.