Chapter Text
The Airbnb felt emptier than ever. Enid had returned briefly after Wednesday left, partly to collect the last of her things but mostly to sit in the spaces they had shared. The kitchen where Wednesday made her methodical, precise tea. The couch where they’d laughed—well, where she’d laughed—and talked about everything and nothing. The bedroom door that Wednesday always left slightly ajar, no matter how much Enid teased her about being afraid of the dark.
Now it all felt hollow, a shell of what it had been with Wednesday in it.
Enid clutched the mug in her hands, staring out the frost-covered window. She hated how the silence pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. For the first time in weeks, she couldn’t bring herself to hum along to her favorite playlist or chat with her mom on the phone. Even her art supplies sat untouched on the desk across the room, a reminder of the passion that had once flowed so easily.
She wasn’t angry at Wednesday—how could she be? Wednesday had asked her to come along, to share a life in a world Enid couldn’t follow. And though her heart ached every time she replayed that moment in her mind, she knew her reasons for staying were valid. Ravenwood was her home. Her family, her friends, her work—all of it was here. But knowing she’d made the right choice didn’t make the emptiness any less suffocating.
Enid sighed and set her mug down on the counter, the sound echoing in the stillness. She needed to get out of here, needed to do something other than drown in memories. Grabbing her coat, she headed for the door, the crisp winter air biting at her cheeks as she stepped outside.
Meanwhile, across the country, Wednesday sat in her makeup chair on set, staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror. The chatter of the crew faded into white noise as her thoughts wandered back to the day she left Ravenwood. She had walked out of the Airbnb without looking back, her heart twisting in ways she didn’t know it could.
She’d been careful not to let it show—her face a perfect mask of indifference—but inside, it had felt like pieces of herself were being left behind with every step.
“Five minutes, Wednesday,” the assistant director called, breaking her trance.
She nodded curtly, straightening in her chair. Work was supposed to be her sanctuary, the one place where she could bury herself in precision and purpose. But today, her lines felt heavier on her tongue, the scenes dragging on longer than usual. Even the director, known for his no-nonsense attitude, had paused after a take to ask if she was feeling alright.
“I’m fine,” she’d replied, her tone sharper than intended.
But she wasn’t fine. The set, the script, the controlled chaos of the production—it all felt like a hollow routine. She had thought diving back into her work would distract her, but instead, it only magnified the emptiness inside her. Every quiet moment between takes became a battlefield, her thoughts inevitably drifting back to Enid.
The way Enid had smiled at her from across the table, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. The way she’d always found something to be excited about, no matter how small. The way she had said, “I love you,” as if it were the simplest, most natural thing in the world.
Wednesday leaned forward, resting her elbows on the vanity as she pressed her fingers against her temples. She had been naive to think she could leave Ravenwood and carry on as if nothing had changed. Enid had unraveled her carefully constructed walls, forcing her to confront feelings she had spent years denying.
And now, without her, those walls felt more like ruins than protection.
That evening, Enid found herself at the small park near the center of town, her boots crunching through the snow as she walked the familiar path. She hadn’t told anyone about how deeply the breakup was affecting her, not even Yoko. The words felt too heavy to speak aloud, as if voicing them would make the loss even more real.
She stopped by the frozen pond, watching as a few kids skated under the glow of the streetlights. Their laughter rang out across the still air, a stark contrast to the ache in her chest.
This was where she had first shown Wednesday how to skate. Well, “shown” was a generous term—Wednesday had spent most of the time scowling at her wobbly attempts, insisting that skating was impractical and inefficient. But there had been a moment, just one, where Wednesday had relaxed enough to let Enid guide her across the ice.
Enid closed her eyes, the memory bittersweet. She could almost feel Wednesday’s hesitant grip on her hands, hear the dry quip about how “falling would be highly inconvenient.”
“Stupid, stupid ice skating,” she muttered under her breath, her voice breaking slightly.
She stuffed her hands into her coat pockets and turned away from the pond, her steps brisk as she tried to outrun her thoughts. But no matter where she went, Wednesday’s absence followed, clinging to her like a shadow.
By the time Wednesday returned to her hotel that night, exhaustion had settled over her like a heavy cloak. She dropped her bag by the door and sank onto the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the muted city lights outside the window.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a text from her co-star:
“Hey, you okay? You seemed off today. Let me know if you need anything.”
Wednesday ignored the message, her fingers hovering over the screen before locking it again. She appreciated the concern, but there was nothing anyone could do. Not about this.
Instead, she pulled out the small notebook she’d been keeping—a habit she’d picked up in Ravenwood, inspired by Enid’s endless creativity. Flipping to a blank page, she started to write, her pen scratching softly against the paper.
“Enid,” she began, the name alone enough to make her heart tighten.
“I don’t know how to do this. I thought leaving would be the hardest part, but it turns out, existing without you is harder.”
She paused, her pen hovering above the page. The words felt too raw, too revealing. But she kept writing, pouring out the feelings she couldn’t say aloud, the ones she hadn’t even admitted to herself until now.
By the time she closed the notebook, the room felt quieter, emptier than before. She set it on the nightstand and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as her thoughts swirled.
Somewhere, miles away, Enid was probably doing the same—lying awake, wondering how to move forward.
And though they were apart, in that moment, they were both lost in the same ache.
Enid stood at the sink in her small apartment, staring down at the half-washed dishes. Her hands were submerged in soapy water, but she had stopped scrubbing long ago. The white noise of the faucet filled the room, but it did little to drown out her thoughts.
She had gone through the motions of her day—answering emails for her job, smiling at neighbors, even picking up groceries she didn’t need. Everything felt hollow, like she was a ghost drifting through her own life. The vibrant energy that usually defined her had been replaced with an ache she couldn’t shake.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, pulling her from her thoughts. She dried her hands on a towel and glanced at the screen. A text from Yoko.
“Dinner tomorrow? I’m bringing wine and gossip.”
Enid hesitated. Yoko had been her rock during so many tough times, but the thought of sitting across from her best friend, pretending she wasn’t breaking apart inside, felt impossible. Still, she couldn’t avoid everyone forever.
“Sure,” she replied, keeping it short.
She set the phone back down and leaned against the counter, her gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the town was quiet, the streetlights casting long shadows on the snow. It was a familiar scene, one she had always found comforting. But tonight, it only reminded her of what was missing.
Across the country, Wednesday walked onto the set of her show, the weight of her thoughts masked by her sharp, deliberate movements. The world around her buzzed with activity—lights being adjusted, scripts shuffled, directors barking instructions. It should have been a welcome distraction, the kind of controlled chaos she usually thrived in.
But her mind refused to cooperate.
She adjusted the cuffs of her black coat, her fingers brushing against the smooth fabric with a precision that felt hollow. Every detail reminded her of Enid—the splash of color her presence always brought, the way she filled every space with life.
The assistant director approached, clipboard in hand. “We’re ready for you, Ms. Addams. Scene 14.”
Wednesday nodded curtly and followed him to the set. The scene was a dramatic confrontation, one she had rehearsed dozens of times. Yet as the cameras rolled, her lines came out stilted, her delivery lacking its usual sharpness.
“Cut,” the director called, his voice tinged with frustration. “Wednesday, are you feeling alright? This isn’t like you.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, her tone clipped.
He didn’t look convinced but waved for another take. As the scene restarted, Wednesday forced herself to focus, channeling her emotions into her performance. It worked—partially. The scene wrapped without further interruption, but the hollowness in her chest remained.
When the day’s filming finally ended, Wednesday returned to her trailer, her steps heavy with exhaustion. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her gaze dropping to the floor. For a moment, she let herself feel the weight of it all—the distance, the silence, the empty spaces where Enid used to be.
Her phone buzzed on the table, and she picked it up, half-hoping it was Enid. But the screen displayed a message from her manager instead.
“Great work today! Don’t forget about the press event next week.”
Wednesday sighed and set the phone down, her fingers brushing against the small notebook beside it. She opened it to the page she had written the night before and reread the words, her chest tightening with each line.
That evening, Enid found herself sitting on the floor of her living room, surrounded by art supplies. Canvases leaned against the walls, jars of paint scattered around her. Usually, painting brought her peace, a way to channel her emotions into something tangible. But tonight, every stroke felt forced, every color wrong.
Her phone lay face down on the carpet, the silence between her and Wednesday growing louder with each passing hour. She had considered reaching out, typing out a message and erasing it more times than she could count. But what would she even say?
“I miss you”?
“I don’t know how to do this without you”?
The words felt too small for the storm inside her.
She dipped her brush into a bright yellow paint, the color clashing with the somber tones she had started with. As the brush swept across the canvas, her mind drifted to the first time Wednesday had watched her paint. She had been so curious, her dark eyes narrowing as she tried to understand the chaos Enid created on the canvas.
“You’re not following any logical pattern,” Wednesday had observed, her tone both critical and intrigued.
“That’s the point,” Enid had replied, grinning as she added a splash of red. “Sometimes you just have to feel it.”
Wednesday hadn’t said anything else, but Enid had caught the faintest twitch of her lips—a silent acknowledgment that, maybe, she understood.
Now, sitting alone in the quiet of her apartment, Enid wished she could go back to that moment, to the simplicity of creating with Wednesday by her side. But the distance between them felt insurmountable, a chasm she didn’t know how to cross.
Wednesday sat on the edge of her bed, staring out the hotel window at the city lights below. The notebook lay open in her lap, but the words she wanted to write wouldn’t come. Her mind was filled with fragments of conversations, stolen glances, and the warmth of Enid’s hand in hers.
She picked up her phone, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She wanted to text Enid, to hear her voice, to know she was okay. But every word she thought of felt insufficient.
“How are you?”
“I miss you.”
“I’m sorry.”
She sighed and set the phone aside, her hand brushing against the notebook again. Opening it to a fresh page, she began to write, her pen moving faster than her thoughts.
“I thought leaving would make this easier, but it hasn’t. Every step away from you feels like I’m leaving a part of myself behind.”
The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered, a reflection of the storm she couldn’t contain. When she finally stopped writing, the page was filled with lines she would never send, thoughts she would never voice.
She closed the notebook and lay back on the bed, the weight of her emotions pressing down on her like a tidal wave. Somewhere, miles away, Enid was probably feeling the same—lost, searching for something to hold onto.
The sound of Enid’s phone ringing echoed through her small apartment, breaking the quiet hum of the evening. She glanced at the screen, her chest tightening when she saw Yoko’s name flashing.
With a deep breath, she answered. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Yoko said, her voice carrying its usual steady tone. “Just checking in. How’s my favorite ball of sunshine holding up?”
Enid forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to her own ears. “Oh, you know, living the dream.”
Yoko paused on the other end, the silence stretching before she spoke again. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
Enid’s shoulders slumped as she leaned against the counter, her fingers tracing the edge of a chipped mug. “I know. I just… I don’t even know how to talk about it. It feels like everything’s too much and not enough at the same time.”
“Yeah, heartbreak sucks like that,” Yoko said bluntly. “You want to binge bad reality TV and trash whoever this Wednesday girl is.”
Enid’s breath hitched, a lump forming in her throat. “She’s not… I can’t trash her, Yoko. She’s amazing. She just… had to leave.”
“Had to?” Yoko pressed gently. “Or chose to?”
Enid hesitated, the words catching in her throat. She knew Wednesday didn’t want to leave, that it wasn’t some casual choice. But the outcome was the same—she was gone, and Enid was left picking up the pieces.
“It’s complicated,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Complicated doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone,” Yoko replied. “Let me help.”
Enid’s eyes stung, and she blinked quickly, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. “Thanks, Yoko. I mean it. But I think I just need some time tonight.”
“Okay,” Yoko said, her voice soft with understanding. “But call me if you need me, alright? No matter what time.”
“I will,” Enid promised before hanging up.
She set the phone down and exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting to the canvas leaning against the wall. It was the one she had started the night before, the colors chaotic and clashing. She grabbed a brush and dipped it into the nearest jar of paint, her movements almost frantic as she tried to channel the storm inside her into something tangible.
But no matter how many strokes she added, it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like enough.
Wednesday sat in her hotel room, the city skyline sprawling before her like a sea of artificial light. The notebook lay open on the desk, pages filled with words she couldn’t bring herself to send.
The knock on the door startled her, and she turned sharply, her heart racing. For a fleeting moment, she imagined it was Enid, somehow here, defying the odds to close the distance between them.
But when she opened the door, it was her assistant, clutching a clipboard and a tablet. “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Addams, but the producers need your approval on these revisions.”
Wednesday nodded curtly, stepping aside to let him in. As he went over the changes, she nodded absently, her mind drifting back to Enid with every pause.
“Ms. Addams?” her assistant prompted, his tone cautious.
“Fine,” Wednesday said briskly. “Approve them.”
The assistant hesitated, clearly wanting to say more, but he chose not to push. “Understood. Goodnight.”
The door closed with a soft click, and Wednesday found herself alone again. She ran her fingers through her dark hair, her thoughts a tangled mess. Every corner of her mind seemed to hold a memory of Enid—her laugh, her warmth, the way she lit up every room she entered.
She grabbed the notebook, flipping to a blank page. The words spilled out in sharp, jagged lines.
“I thought leaving would be the hardest part, but it wasn’t. The hardest part is existing without you.”
She snapped the notebook shut, tossing it onto the desk as if the act could silence her own thoughts. But the ache in her chest remained, a constant reminder of what she had left behind.
The next morning, Enid stood in line at the local coffee shop, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She had barely slept, her dreams filled with fleeting images of Wednesday—her sharp gaze, her rare smiles, the way she had made even the simplest moments feel extraordinary.
When it was her turn to order, the barista greeted her with a warm smile. “The usual, Enid?”
She nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, thanks.”
As she waited, her eyes wandered to the corner table near the window. It was empty now, but her mind conjured a memory of the last time she had sat there—with Wednesday. They had shared a pot of tea, their conversation easy and unguarded in a way that felt rare and precious.
“Enid?”
The barista’s voice pulled her back to the present, and she quickly grabbed her drink, mumbling a thank-you. She stepped outside, the cold air biting at her cheeks, and started walking aimlessly down the street.
Her feet carried her to the small park at the edge of town, the one she and Wednesday had visited during their last week together. She sat on the same bench, her fingers curling tightly around the warm cup as she stared at the frozen pond.
The world around her moved on, oblivious to the storm raging inside her. But Enid couldn’t shake the feeling that a part of her was still back in that Airbnb, sitting beside Wednesday as the fire crackled and the weight of their goodbye loomed.
Wednesday sat in the backseat of a black car, the city flashing by in a blur of lights and shadows. Her driver was silent, the soft hum of the engine the only sound as they made their way to the studio.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out, her heart skipping a beat when she saw the name on the screen.
Yoko.
For a moment, she considered ignoring it. But something about the persistence of the call made her answer.
“Hello?”
“Wednesday,” Yoko said, her voice steady but firm. “I’m calling because I think you need to hear this. Enid’s a mess. And I’m guessing you are, too.”
Wednesday’s grip on the phone tightened. “I’m handling it.”
“Yeah, you’re handling it by throwing yourself into work and pretending you don’t feel anything,” Yoko shot back. “But I know Enid, and I know you. This isn’t just something you walk away from.”
Wednesday exhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the blurred cityscape outside. “What do you expect me to do? Drop everything and go back?”
“I expect you to be honest with yourself,” Yoko said. “And with her. Because the way things ended? It’s not fair to either of you.”
The line went quiet for a moment, Yoko’s words hanging heavy in the air. Finally, Wednesday spoke, her voice quiet but resolute. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Yoko said. “Just do something about it.”
The call ended, and Wednesday stared at her phone, her reflection visible in the dark screen. Silence filled the room and her thoughts.
Enid stood in her art studio, her paint-streaked fingers hovering over a blank canvas. The vibrant colors that usually poured from her brushes were nowhere to be found. The studio, once her sanctuary, now felt hollow, echoing with the absence of a presence she couldn’t shake.
She let out a frustrated sigh and dropped the brush onto the table, its wooden handle clattering against the palette. Her gaze flicked to the corner where a stack of unfinished canvases sat, each one bearing the beginnings of an idea she couldn’t finish. She had tried—tried to channel the storm in her chest into her art, to pour the ache of her heart onto the canvas. But nothing felt right.
The door creaked open, and Yoko leaned in, holding two cups of coffee. “Hey,” she said softly, her sharp eyes scanning the room. “Figured you could use some caffeine.”
Enid managed a faint smile, wiping her hands on a rag before accepting the cup. “Thanks.”
Yoko stepped inside, her presence grounding but unobtrusive. She leaned against the wall, her gaze flickering to the blank canvas in front of Enid. “Still nothing?”
Enid shook her head, her lips pressing into a tight line. “I just… can’t. Everything feels wrong.”
Yoko sipped her coffee, her silence more comforting than words. After a moment, she set her cup down and crossed her arms. “You know, it’s okay to not have it together right now. You went through something big.”
Enid swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought I was okay. I thought I could handle it. But it’s like… she’s everywhere. Everything reminds me of her. And I don’t even know if she’s thinking about me or if she’s just… moved on.”
Yoko frowned, her tone softening. “Enid, Wednesday doesn’t strike me as the type to move on easily. If anything, I’d bet she’s just as messed up about this as you are.”
“Maybe,” Enid murmured, her voice heavy with doubt. “But it doesn’t change anything, does it? She’s there, and I’m here. And no amount of wishing is going to fix that.”
Yoko sighed, her expression pensive. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. Sometimes things have a way of coming back around when you least expect it.”
Enid didn’t respond, her chest tightening at the thought. She turned back to the canvas, her fingers tightening around the brush. “I wish I could believe that.”
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Wednesday sat on the edge of her bed in her hotel room, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The script she was supposed to be reviewing lay untouched on the nightstand, its pages taunting her with their unread lines.
Her mind wasn’t here. It was still in Ravenwood, still in that small Airbnb where she had spent her last night with Enid. The image of Enid’s tear-streaked face haunted her, a constant reminder of the choice she had made.
She reached for the notebook on the nightstand, her fingers brushing over its worn cover. Flipping to a fresh page, she let the pen hover for a moment before pressing it to the paper.
“There are days I wonder if leaving was a mistake. And there are nights I know it was.”
She set the pen down, her hand trembling slightly as she closed the notebook. The words felt like a betrayal of everything she had told herself—that she had to leave, that it was the right thing to do. But the weight in her chest told a different story.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table, and she glanced at the screen. It was a message from her assistant, reminding her of the early call time for tomorrow’s shoot. She sighed, setting the phone back down without replying.
The work was supposed to be a distraction. It was supposed to fill the void, to keep her mind occupied so she wouldn’t have to think about the empty space Enid had left behind. But it wasn’t working.
She stood and walked to the window, the city lights stretching out before her like a sea of missed opportunities. She had everything she had worked for—success, recognition, stability. But none of it felt like enough.
Her hand moved to the pocket of her coat, where a small, folded note rested. She pulled it out, unfolding it carefully. It was one of Enid’s notes, scribbled on the back of a receipt from the café they had visited. The words were simple but earnest.
“You’re more than the image people have of you. I see that. I see you.”
Wednesday traced the words with her fingertips, her chest tightening. She had kept the note close, unable to part with the piece of Enid that felt so raw and unfiltered. It was a reminder of what she had lost—and what she had been too afraid to hold onto.
The next day, Enid wandered into the town square, her steps slow and hesitant. The holiday decorations were still up, the cheerful lights and garlands now tinged with an air of bittersweet nostalgia. She stopped in front of the Santa mailbox, her fingers brushing against the cold metal.
It felt like a lifetime ago that she and Wednesday had stood here, planning the charity event that had brought so much joy to the town. She could still hear Wednesday’s dry commentary, still see the faint smile that had tugged at her lips when she thought no one was looking.
“Enid?” a voice called, pulling her from her thoughts.
She turned to see Clara, one of the town volunteers, approaching with a clipboard. “Hey,” Enid said, forcing a smile. “What’s up?”
“We’re finalizing the plans for the next charity event,” Clara said, her tone warm. “It’s going to be a big one. We’re hoping to raise enough to renovate the community center.”
“That’s great,” Enid said, her voice genuine despite the heaviness in her chest. “Let me know how I can help.”
Clara nodded, handing her a flyer. “We’d love for you to be involved. Your ideas always bring so much energy to these events.”
Enid smiled faintly, tucking the flyer into her coat pocket. As Clara walked away, she glanced back at the mailbox, her heart aching with the weight of all the unspoken words she wished she could send into the void.
In her studio later that evening, Enid finally picked up a brush, her strokes slow and deliberate. The colors that flowed from her were muted, softer than her usual palette. But as the image began to take shape, she felt a flicker of something—hope, maybe, or the faintest spark of healing.
She didn’t know if Wednesday was thinking of her, didn’t know if their paths would ever cross again. But for the first time, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the story wasn’t over yet.
Wednesday sat in her trailer on the set of her show, surrounded by the familiar trappings of her life: scripts, meticulously organized notes, and a rack of costumes. Outside, the hum of the crew filled the air, punctuated by calls for last looks and sound checks. It was everything she had worked for, everything she had once thought she wanted.
But it all felt distant now, like a backdrop to a play she no longer cared to perform in.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, its screen lighting up with a message from her assistant: “Lunch in ten. They want to discuss the season finale.”
Wednesday dismissed the notification with a swipe, her focus drifting instead to the notebook that lay open on the desk. She hadn’t written in days—not because she lacked the words but because the weight of them felt unbearable. The pages were filled with fragmented thoughts, questions she couldn’t answer, and sketches of a face she couldn’t forget.
She ran her fingers over the leather cover, her mind replaying a memory that had become a constant companion in her solitude: Enid’s laughter ringing through the quiet of the Airbnb, her blue eyes bright with unfiltered joy. The image was so vivid it felt like a cruel trick of her imagination.
A knock on the door jolted her from her thoughts.
“Ms. Addams?” a production assistant called from outside. “They’re ready for you on set.”
Wednesday straightened her posture, her expression hardening as she slipped the notebook into her bag. “I’ll be there shortly,” she replied, her voice even but clipped.
The door closed softly, leaving her alone once again.
Meanwhile, in Ravenwood, Enid stood in front of the Sinclair family’s Christmas tree, carefully removing the last of the ornaments. The house was quieter than usual, her brothers off running errands and her parents occupied with post-holiday cleanup. It gave her time to think—a dangerous luxury these days.
She held a delicate glass ornament in her hands, its surface etched with snowflakes and the words “Home for the Holidays.” It was a gift from her mom, a reminder of the family’s shared traditions. But this year, it felt like a hollow sentiment. Home didn’t feel the same anymore.
Enid placed the ornament in its box and sat back on her heels, her gaze drifting to the window. The sky was a muted gray, heavy with the promise of snow. It mirrored the heaviness in her chest, a constant ache she had learned to carry since Wednesday had walked out of her life.
“Hey,” Yoko’s voice called from the doorway, pulling Enid from her thoughts. “I figured you’d be here.”
Enid glanced up, offering a faint smile. “Where else would I be?”
Yoko walked over, holding out a thermos. “Thought you could use some hot chocolate.”
Enid accepted it gratefully, the warmth seeping into her hands. “Thanks.”
Yoko sat down beside her, her sharp gaze studying Enid carefully. “You’ve been quiet lately. More than usual.”
Enid shrugged, her smile faltering. “Just… processing.”
“Still thinking about her?” Yoko asked gently, though her tone carried no judgment.
Enid nodded, her throat tightening. “Every day.”
Yoko leaned back against the couch, her expression thoughtful. “You know, some things take time. Healing, closure—whatever you want to call it. But if you ask me, you and Wednesday? That connection doesn’t just disappear.”
“It feels like it has,” Enid admitted, her voice trembling. “We haven’t talked. I don’t even know if she wants to hear from me.”
Yoko raised an eyebrow. “You think she’s not thinking about you? Come on, Enid. This is Wednesday we’re talking about. She’s not exactly subtle when it comes to the things she cares about.”
Enid’s lips quirked upward, though her eyes remained heavy with doubt. “I wish I could believe that.”
Yoko nudged her shoulder lightly. “You should. If nothing else, Wednesday Addams isn’t the type to let go of something—or someone—easily.”
Later that evening, Wednesday found herself in her hotel room once again, the city lights casting a faint glow through the window. She sat at the small desk, a cup of tea steaming beside her as she opened her laptop.
The screen loaded with her work emails, updates from the network, and promotional schedules for the new season. But instead of focusing on the tasks at hand, her cursor hovered over the search bar.
It was a foolish impulse, one she had resisted for weeks. But tonight, her resolve crumbled.
She typed “Ravenwood news” into the search bar and hit enter.
The first result was an article about the town’s upcoming charity event, complete with a photo of Enid standing in front of the Santa mailbox. Her bright smile was radiant as ever, her hands gesturing animatedly as she spoke to a group of volunteers.
Wednesday’s chest tightened at the sight. She read the article twice, committing every detail to memory—the cause, the plans, the enthusiasm that practically radiated off the page. It was so quintessentially Enid, so full of the warmth and light that Wednesday found herself craving more than ever.
She closed the laptop, leaning back in her chair as the ache in her chest grew heavier. The distance between them felt insurmountable, but for the first time, a flicker of something else stirred within her.
Hope.
In Ravenwood, Enid lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the faint hum of her heater filled the room. The day had been long, her thoughts weighed down by the lingering shadows of what-ifs and could-have-beens.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand, her fingers hovering over the screen. She had scrolled through Wednesday’s messages countless times since the breakup, rereading their conversations like a lifeline. But tonight, she hesitated.
What would she even say? That she missed her? That she couldn’t stop thinking about her? That every moment without her felt like a piece of her heart had been left behind?
Her thumb hovered over the call button, her chest tightening with indecision. But after a moment, she set the phone down, her resolve crumbling under the weight of her fear.
Instead, she pulled the blanket tighter around herself and closed her eyes, hoping that sleep might offer her a reprieve from the ache that refused to fade.
In the quiet of the night, both Enid and Wednesday lay awake in their respective worlds, their thoughts consumed by the same ache, the same yearning, the same unspoken hope.
The city was alive with its usual chaos. Yellow taxis zipped through the streets, their horns echoing against the towering buildings, and pedestrians rushed past Wednesday as she made her way to the studio. Her coat billowed slightly in the winter breeze, the sharpness of the air cutting through her like a blade.
Yet none of it registered.
Her thoughts were elsewhere—thousands of miles away in the quiet snow-draped town of Ravenwood. It was absurd how much she missed it. The simplicity, the stillness, the warmth it held. Or maybe, it was just Enid.
She stepped into the studio, nodding curtly at the receptionist before making her way to the set. The buzz of production surrounded her, crew members adjusting lights, sound technicians checking their equipment, and her co-stars rehearsing lines. It was all so familiar, yet it felt hollow.
“Wednesday,” a voice called out. It was Clara, the assistant director, clipboard in hand. “You’re needed for a read-through in ten.”
Wednesday nodded, forcing herself into motion. She had perfected the art of compartmentalization over the years—shutting out emotions, focusing solely on the task at hand. But lately, that skill had started to falter. Thoughts of Enid crept in at the most inopportune times, disrupting her carefully constructed facade.
As she reached the small conference room where the read-through was set to take place, her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She hesitated, glancing at the screen.
It wasn’t Enid.
Her chest tightened with disappointment as she dismissed the notification and slipped her phone back into her pocket. The ache was familiar now, a constant companion that refused to be ignored.
In Ravenwood, Enid sat at her kitchen table, staring at the steaming mug of coffee in front of her. The morning light streamed through the window, highlighting the faint shadows under her eyes. She hadn’t slept much the night before.
Her mom bustled around the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared breakfast. “You’re quiet today,” Meredith observed, glancing at her daughter. “Everything okay?”
Enid managed a faint smile. “Yeah, just… tired.”
Meredith raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. She set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Enid and took a seat across from her. “You’ve been working hard lately. Maybe it’s time you take a break. Go visit some friends, get out of the house.”
Enid’s fingers tightened around her mug. “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
Meredith reached across the table, placing a hand over Enid’s. “You’re not fine, sweetheart. I can see it.”
Enid’s throat tightened, the weight of her mom’s concern pressing down on her. She nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just need time.”
Meredith gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Time helps. But so do people.”
As her mom returned to the stove, Enid’s gaze drifted to her phone on the table. She wanted to call Wednesday, to hear her voice, to tell her everything that had been weighing on her heart. But the fear of rejection—of silence on the other end of the line—kept her rooted in place.
By the time Wednesday returned to her trailer, the sun had begun to set, casting a warm orange glow over the city skyline. She closed the door behind her and sank into the armchair, exhaustion settling over her like a heavy blanket.
Her phone sat on the desk, its screen dark and still. She hadn’t heard from Enid since the breakup. Part of her had hoped for a message, a sign that Enid was still thinking about her. But as the days turned into weeks, that hope began to fade.
She reached for the notebook she had been writing in, flipping it open to a blank page. Her pen hovered over the paper, the words forming in her mind before spilling out onto the page.
“Dear Enid,” she began, her handwriting neat and deliberate.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever send this. Maybe it’s better if I don’t. But there are things I need to say, even if only to myself.”
The words flowed freely now, a torrent of emotions she had kept bottled up for too long.
“I miss you. Every day. I miss your laugh, your warmth, the way you lit up a room just by being in it. I miss the way you made me feel—like I wasn’t alone. Like I was enough.”
Her hand trembled as she wrote, the ache in her chest growing with each word.
“I hate that I hurt you. I hate that I couldn’t find a way to make this work. And I hate that I’m here, surrounded by everything I thought I wanted, and none of it means anything without you.”
She paused, her pen hovering over the page.
“I don’t know if we’ll ever find our way back to each other. But I need you to know that you changed me, Enid. You made me believe in something I didn’t think was possible. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.”
She closed the notebook, her hand resting on the cover as she took a shaky breath. The words had poured out of her like a confession, raw and unfiltered. But they offered little comfort.
In Ravenwood, Enid stood by the frozen pond behind her family’s house, her breath visible in the crisp winter air. She had come here to think, to find some semblance of clarity in the quiet. The pond had always been her refuge—a place where she could escape the chaos of her thoughts.
But today, even the stillness of the water couldn’t quiet the storm inside her.
She reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. Her thumb hovered over Wednesday’s contact, the familiar name staring back at her like a challenge.
Before she could second-guess herself, she pressed the call button. The line rang once, twice, three times.
Then it went to voicemail.
Enid’s heart sank as she listened to the robotic voice prompt her to leave a message. She hesitated, her throat tightening as she struggled to find the words.
“Hey, it’s me,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “I don’t even know why I’m calling. I guess I just… I wanted to hear your voice. Anyway, um… I hope you’re okay. I miss you.”
She ended the call before she could say more, her chest heaving with the effort to hold back her tears. The words felt inadequate, like they barely scratched the surface of everything she wanted to say.
But it was all she could manage.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, Enid sat on the edge of the pond, her heart heavy with longing.
The week dragged on, its monotony broken only by the relentless pace of Wednesday’s schedule. The days blurred together—a haze of early call times, script rewrites, and endless hours under the harsh glare of studio lights. She moved through it all with a precision that bordered on mechanical, her mind and body on autopilot.
But her heart refused to follow suit.
Each night, when the bustle of the day faded into the quiet hum of her trailer, her thoughts inevitably drifted back to Enid. It wasn’t the loud, overwhelming grief of the first few days. No, this was different—quieter but no less painful. It was the absence of Enid that lingered, the hollow space she had left behind.
The voicemail was played on repeat she didn’t know how to respond she didn’t know what to say but hearing Enid voice even through the microphone filter was so calming to her.
Wednesday sat in her trailer, a steaming cup of tea in her hands, her gaze fixed on the rain streaking the window. She hadn’t written to Enid since the night she poured her heart into the notebook. The pages sat untouched in her drawer, a testament to the words she couldn’t bring herself to send.
Her phone buzzed on the table, the sound breaking through the stillness. She picked it up, her brow furrowing at the name on the screen.
Roman.
She hesitated before answering. “Yes?”
“You sound thrilled,” Roman said, his voice dry but tinged with concern. “How’s the show going?”
“It’s fine,” she replied curtly. “Everything is on schedule.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “And how are you?”
Wednesday’s grip on the phone tightened. “What do you want, Roman?”
He sighed. “Look, I know you don’t like talking about… personal stuff. But you’ve been different lately. Distant.”
“I’m always distant,” Wednesday said flatly.
“This is different,” he insisted. “Is this about Ravenwood? About… her?”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “Stay out of it.”
Roman let out a frustrated breath. “I’m just saying, you’re allowed to feel things, Wednesday. You’re not a robot. If you need to talk—”
“I don’t,” she snapped, cutting him off. “Focus on your job, Roman. I’ll handle mine.”
Before he could respond, she ended the call and set the phone down with a deliberate thud. Her hands shook as she reached for her tea, the heat grounding her against the storm brewing inside.
In Ravenwood, the town had settled into its usual post-holiday quiet. The festive decorations were gone, replaced by the muted tones of winter. The streets were dusted with snow, and the air carried the faint scent of woodsmoke.
Enid sat in her room, a half-finished painting on the easel in front of her. She stared at the canvas, her brush hovering in the air, unsure of what to add next. The colors felt dull, lifeless—so unlike the vibrant, playful pieces she usually created.
Her phone buzzed on the table, and she glanced at the screen. It was Yoko.
“Hey,” Enid said, her voice lacking its usual energy.
“Hey,” Yoko replied. “Just checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Enid said, setting her brush down. “I’ve been… busy.”
Yoko snorted. “Busy? Please. I know you better than that. What’s going on?”
Enid sighed, leaning back in her chair. “It’s Wednesday.”
“I figured,” Yoko said gently. “You want to talk about it?”
Enid hesitated. She hadn’t opened up to anyone about the breakup—not fully. It felt too raw, too personal. But Yoko was persistent, her silence on the other end of the line an unspoken invitation.
“I miss her,” Enid admitted finally, her voice trembling. “I miss her so much, Yoko. But I don’t know how to fix this. Or if it even can be fixed.”
“Long distance is hard,” Yoko said. “But it’s not impossible.”
“It’s not just the distance,” Enid said, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “It’s everything. Her career, my life here… It feels like we’re living in two different worlds.”
“Maybe you are,” Yoko said carefully. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t find a way to meet in the middle.”
Enid shook her head, even though Yoko couldn’t see her. “It’s not that simple.”
“Love never is,” Yoko said. “But if you care about her—really care—then maybe it’s worth fighting for.”
The words struck a chord, and Enid felt a lump form in her throat. “I don’t know if she feels the same way.”
“Then ask her,” Yoko said firmly. “You won’t know unless you try.”
Enid swallowed hard, her gaze falling on her phone. The idea of reaching out, of making herself vulnerable again, was terrifying. But the thought of losing Wednesday was to much to bear.
The quiet hum of the studio lights buzzed faintly in Wednesday’s ears as she sat at the edge of the set. The production crew was busy rearranging props for the next scene, their voices a low murmur in the background. She held her script, but the words blurred together, her focus slipping.
Her phone rested on the table beside her, its screen dark. For days, she’d thought about reaching out. She had drafted a message too many times to count, her thumb hovering over the send button before she always deleted it. But the weight of what she wanted to say, needed to say, felt too heavy for mere text.
Instead, she opened her contacts, her fingers lingering over Enid’s name.
It was reckless. It was impulsive. It was unlike her.
But she pressed the button anyway.
Her voice shook as she began. “Enid, it’s me. I…” Wednesday stopped, closing her eyes as she drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’ll listen to this. I don’t even know if you should. But there are things I need to say.”
The words spilled out, unfiltered and raw.
“I miss you. I’ve been trying not to. Trying to stay busy, stay focused, keep moving forward like I always have. But it’s not working. No matter how much I try to ignore it, I keep coming back to you. To us.”
Her voice faltered, and she hesitated before continuing.
“I told myself I was doing the right thing. That letting you go was better than holding on to something that felt impossible. But I hate it. I hate this, Enid. I hate that we’re apart. And…” Her voice softened, her tone trembling with emotion. “I hate how much I love you.”
Wednesday gripped the edge of her seat, her nails digging into the fabric. “I know I should’ve said it more. Maybe I should’ve said it sooner. But it doesn’t change the fact that I do. I love you, Enid. And I don’t think that’s ever going to stop.”
She paused, her breath shaky.
“I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with this. Maybe nothing. Maybe I just needed to say it. But if there’s even a chance… If there’s a part of you that feels the same…”
Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard before finishing. “Call me. Or don’t. Just… take care of yourself, Enid. Please.”
She ended the call and set the phone down with shaking hands. The weight in her chest lifted slightly, though it was quickly replaced with the ache of waiting.
Hours later, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the studio lot in a soft twilight. Wednesday’s trailer stood at the edge of the lot, its small porch light flickering against the growing darkness.
She wrapped her coat tighter around herself, the biting chill of the air doing little to distract her from the gnawing anxiety curling in her chest.
Her phone remained stubbornly silent.
The wind rustled the trees lining the lot as Wednesday approached her trailer. A figure stood just beyond the path, their silhouette still and bathed in the faint glow of the nearby streetlamp.
Wednesday stopped in her tracks, her breath catching.
The body language was unmistakable—leaning slightly to the side, arms crossed in a familiar, casual posture. But the hair was different—shorter, dyed a deep, almost plum shade that glimmered under the dim light.
Her heart pounded.
It couldn’t be.
She blinked, wondering if exhaustion was finally catching up to her. She took another step, her gaze locked on the figure.
And then the figure turned.
The moment their eyes met, time seemed to freeze. Enid’s lips curved into a soft, teasing smile, her blue eyes sparkling with a mix of warmth and nervousness.
“Miss me?”
The two words struck Wednesday like a thunderclap. She froze, her breath hitching painfully in her chest as an onslaught of emotion surged through her. Relief, disbelief, hope—they all collided, leaving her momentarily speechless.
Enid took a tentative step closer, her expression softening as she took in Wednesday’s stunned face. “I got your voicemail,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the way her fingers fidgeted at her sides.
Wednesday’s throat tightened. She took a slow, deliberate step forward, her dark eyes searching Enid’s face as if to confirm she wasn’t dreaming. “You’re here,” she finally managed, her voice low and trembling with restrained emotion.
Enid nodded, her gaze unwavering. “I didn’t want to miss my chance to change everything.”
Wednesday’s lips parted, a soft, shaky exhale escaping her. The world around them fell away, leaving only the two of them standing in the quiet glow of the streetlamp.
She reached out hesitantly, her hand brushing against Enid’s. The touch was electric, grounding her in a way that nothing else could.
“I thought…” Wednesday’s voice faltered, her usual composure crumbling. “I thought I’d lost you.”
Enid’s fingers curled around hers, their grip firm and reassuring. “You didn’t,” she said softly. “I’m here. If you still want me.”
Wednesday’s response was immediate, her voice quiet but unwavering. “I do. I always have.”
A soft smile spread across Enid’s face, and she took another step closer, closing the distance between them. “Good,” she said, her voice catching slightly. “Because I wasn’t ready to let go either.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, Wednesday let herself relax. The tension in her shoulders eased, her grip on Enid’s hand tightening as if to anchor herself in the moment.
And as they stood there, bathed in the soft glow of the streetlamp, Wednesday realized that for the first time in weeks, she could breathe again.
The soft click of the trailer door closing behind them broke the stillness. Inside, the space was warm and faintly cluttered, the small area filled with Wednesday’s belongings: a stack of books on the counter, a meticulously folded blanket draped over the arm of the couch, and a steaming cup of untouched tea sitting on the small table by the window.
Enid’s eyes roamed over the room, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “This is… very you,” she said, her voice quiet but light, tinged with a warmth Wednesday hadn’t realized how much she missed.
“It’s temporary,” Wednesday replied, her tone neutral. But there was an unmistakable edge of vulnerability in her voice. She stepped further into the space, her movements measured, careful, as though any sudden motion might shatter the fragile reality of Enid’s presence.
Enid turned to face her, her gaze soft but steady. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” she said, her smile widening. “It’s just… it’s nice to see a little piece of your world.”
Wednesday’s lips twitched, almost forming a smirk before falling still. She crossed her arms over her chest, her dark eyes flickering over Enid as if trying to reconcile the image of her standing here, in this space, with the countless nights she had spent imagining this very moment.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Wednesday admitted finally, her voice low.
Enid took a step closer, her boots making a soft thud against the floor. “I wasn’t sure I would,” she confessed. “But then I heard your message, and… I couldn’t stay away.”
Wednesday’s throat tightened. She had been so certain she wouldn’t hear back from Enid—so prepared to accept the silence that her presence now felt almost unreal. “Why?” she asked, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. “Why did you come?”
Enid tilted her head, her bright eyes searching Wednesday’s face. “Because you matter to me,” she said simply. “Because even when everything felt impossible, I couldn’t let go of the thought that maybe we could figure it out. Together.”
The words hit Wednesday like a wave, washing over her and pulling at the tightly wound threads of her composure. She swallowed hard, her hands gripping the edge of the small kitchenette counter as if to steady herself. “You shouldn’t have had to do this alone,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Enid stepped closer, closing the remaining distance between them until she was standing right in front of Wednesday. “I wasn’t alone,” she said gently, her hand reaching out to brush against Wednesday’s arm. “You were there, even when you weren’t.”
Wednesday’s gaze dropped to where Enid’s fingers rested against her sleeve. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it grounded her in a way that nothing else had in weeks. “I never wanted to leave,” she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. “But I thought it was the only way to protect you. To make it easier for you.”
Enid let out a soft, bittersweet laugh, shaking her head. “Easier? Wednesday, losing you didn’t make anything easier. It just made everything feel… empty.”
The raw honesty in her words broke something inside Wednesday. She looked up, her dark eyes locking onto Enid’s. “I don’t know how to do this,” she said quietly. “I don’t know how to balance everything—my life, my work, and you. But I know I don’t want to lose you again.”
Enid’s expression softened, her hand moving to clasp Wednesday’s. “We don’t have to have all the answers right now,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears glistening in her eyes. “We just have to try. One step at a time.”
Wednesday stared at her for a long moment, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts and emotions she couldn’t untangle. But then, slowly, she nodded. “One step at a time.”
Enid’s smile widened, and she gave Wednesday’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
For a while, they stood there in the quiet, the warmth of the small trailer wrapping around them like a cocoon. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to make this work.
Finally, Enid glanced at the small couch tucked against the wall. “Mind if I sit?” she asked, her tone light.
Wednesday gestured toward it with a small nod. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Enid dropped onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her as she looked up at Wednesday expectantly. “So… what now? Do we watch a documentary? Solve a murder? Plot world domination?”
Wednesday raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into the faintest hint of a smirk. “I was going to suggest tea.”
Enid grinned. “Tea sounds perfect.”
As Wednesday moved to pour a fresh cup, the weight in her chest began to ease. It wasn’t gone—not entirely—but it was lighter. Manageable. And for the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could figure this out. Together.
A week had passed since Enid arrived unannounced, since her “Miss me?” had turned Wednesday’s carefully controlled world upside down. They had spent hours unraveling the tangled mess of their emotions, piecing together fragments of hope and compromise until a new, tentative understanding had formed between them. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs.
And now, standing just off the bustling set of Wednesday’s TV series, the world felt softer, less imposing.
Enid’s hand slipped into Wednesday’s as they walked through the maze of production trailers and crew members. The sun was dipping low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and lavender. The air hummed with the faint energy of a day winding down, and for once, Wednesday wasn’t counting the seconds until she could retreat into solitude.
Enid looked up at her with a small smile, her shorter hair catching the fading sunlight. “You’re really serious when you’re on set,” she teased lightly. “All those big producer types look like they’re scared to even breathe near you.”
“They should be,” Wednesday replied, her tone dry. “Incompetence is a cardinal sin.”
Enid laughed, the sound bubbling and warm, and Wednesday couldn’t help the way her lips curved ever so slightly in response. It wasn’t that she found incompetence amusing—never—but Enid had a way of making the world feel less heavy, less serious.
Their steps slowed as they reached the edge of the set. A quiet nook tucked away from the main chaos of production, it was where Wednesday often retreated during breaks. It had become a small haven, one she now willingly shared.
“You know,” Enid said, leaning against the railing of a small deck overlooking the lot, “I’ve never been on a real TV set before. It’s kind of magical. Loud and chaotic, but magical.”
Wednesday tilted her head, her dark eyes studying Enid’s profile. “It’s not always this enchanting,” she said, her voice softer. “Long hours. Endless rewrites. People who think they know everything when they know nothing.”
“Sounds awful,” Enid teased, bumping her shoulder against Wednesday’s. “And yet, you’re amazing at it.”
Wednesday blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in Enid’s tone. Compliments were rare in her world—most came with strings attached, ulterior motives lurking just beneath the surface. But with Enid, it was different. It was always different.
“I do my job,” Wednesday said quietly, her fingers tightening slightly around Enid’s. “But it’s not the same as it used to be.”
“What do you mean?” Enid asked, turning to face her fully.
Wednesday hesitated, her dark eyes flickering with something vulnerable, something raw. “Before, it was just… work. Something I did because I was good at it, because it kept me moving forward. But now…”
“Now?” Enid prompted gently.
“Now it feels like I have something to come back to,” Wednesday admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone.”
Enid’s eyes softened, and she stepped closer, her free hand reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from Wednesday’s face. “You always have me to come back to,” she said, her voice steady. “No matter where you go, or how busy you get. I’m here, Wednesday. I’m not going anywhere.”
The words settled in Wednesday’s chest, filling the hollow spaces she had grown so accustomed to. She didn’t speak, couldn’t trust herself to. Instead, she leaned forward, her forehead resting lightly against Enid’s.
The moment stretched between them, quiet and intimate, the noise of the set fading into the background.
“I love you,” Wednesday said finally, her voice trembling just enough to betray the depth of her emotion.
Enid smiled, her eyes glistening as she whispered back, “I love you too.”
And then Wednesday kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed or hesitant—it was slow, deliberate, a connection that spoke of everything they had been through and everything they still hoped to be. Enid’s arms slipped around Wednesday’s waist, pulling her closer, grounding her in the warmth and certainty of her presence.
When they finally pulled back, the world felt brighter, sharper, more alive.
Enid grinned, her cheeks flushed. “So, does this mean I get to visit you on set all the time now? Be your personal cheerleader?”
“Only if you promise not to distract me,” Wednesday replied, though the faint smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her affection.
“Deal,” Enid said, squeezing her hand.
They stood there for a while longer, the golden light of the setting sun wrapping around them like a warm embrace. The future still held its uncertainties, its challenges, but for now, they had this moment—this new beginning.
And it was enough.