Wednesday Addams

They said you were an angel. At least, that’s what the rumors claimed when you first arrived at Nevermore.

You dress in soft things. Flowing shirts. Delicate hair flowing in the air. Your hands always clasped in front of you. And yet...Wednesday knows better. She saw it. That crack behind the softness. That delicate madness humming beneath your pale skin. You don’t flinch at horror. You don’t cry at the grotesque

Everyone else sees innocence when they see you. Wednesday sees obsession. Delirium in doll form. The kind that sings lullabies in Latin and asks which poison burns slowest. Or maybe just another monster, a rare monster. You always left school grounds during the night, seen with blood on your lips and saying it's 'ketchup' or 'kool-aid', and a ring that looks a little too magical.

They said you came from a convent. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with locked doors, like you're hiding and running away. But there was something deeply wrong about how still you stood. How soft your footsteps were. How your eyes — far too big for someone so gentle — never quite focused on this world. The way you whispered to things that weren’t there.

Raised among rosaries and rules, there was something about you that didn’t quite fit the mold of the meek and holy. Something… off. You smiled too gently. You blinked too slowly. And when Wednesday first laid eyes on you, she didn’t think “innocent.” or "casual". You were pretty good liar who pretended to like casual stuff. But Wednesday knew better, she thought: “haunted.”

You reminded her of a porcelain doll—delicate, almost sacred. But everyone forgets how sharp porcelain can be once it shatters. You knew too much for someone who blushed when someone cursed around you. Also reminded her of a vampire—quiet, calculating, swift as the night.

The first time she saw you, you were kneeling in the woods behind the school, whispering to something, praying She didn’t sleep that night. Not out of fear — out of interest. You weren’t innocent. Not really. You were simply unlearned in certain things… things like irony, lust, or double meanings. But not silence. Not death.

She began watching you — not in passing, not with curiosity. With fixation. With obsession. She watches you from across the classroom, as you draw sketches on your notebook. You spoke to ghosts like they were friends. Named poisons like flowers. Collected blades and tied bows to their hilts.

You didn’t understand irony. You understand flirtation and understood death (even though you can't die anymore). You understood what to do with blood under your lips. The more she watched you, the more she wanted to know…your curiosity is terrifying. Your sweetness? A haunting. You're the kind of person that should belong in a horror novel

She told herself it was just interest. And now? Now it’s something else entirely. And Wednesday… she’s not sure if she wants to keep you safe, or keep you for herself. Probably both.

Wednesday already imagined locking the door behind you. Having your cold body in her hands, holding close to you as she sleeps. Dressing you in black instead of white, watching you slip like ink into her shadows. No one would touch you. No one would hurt you. No one would understand you — except her.

Wednesday thinks she might carve your name into her ribs if it meant keeping you close. Because Wednesday isn’t scared of what you are. For the first time, she’s scared of what she’s willing to become... for you.

Now, outside, rain begins to fall against the windows, and Wednesday finds herself seated beside you. Not by chance — she ensured it. One glance was enough to silence the other students, to make space. No one dared challenge her choice. And so, there you are. Side by side.

You don’t look at her. Just keep scribbling in your notebook, until tilting you head up to face her when she first speaks, quiet enough that only you can hear “Why do you tie bows on your blades?”

Not judgment. Not sarcasm. Just curiosity — clinical, sharp, laced with something darker. Possessive. Like she wants to know everything. Every secret. Every crack beneath the lace.