Insecurities Part 1 (an anon request)
Parings: Wednesday X Female Reader. Wordcount: 10k-ish.
Summary: Wednesday's frustration made her say something irreversible.
Theme: Angst! Heavy Angst! Like idk heartbreaking heavy angst?
Warnings: Body dysmorphic disorder.
Wednesday’s patience had never been infinite, but today, it was being tested beyond measure. She should have simply put her foot down, denied you both, and spent the afternoon in solitude as she had originally planned. Instead, she was here, in this infernal store, surrounded by the nauseating scent of perfume, the artificial warmth of overhead lights, and the endless cycle of you and Enid dragging her from one corner of the boutique to another.
“This one’s so me!” Enid exclaimed, holding up a shimmering gold dress that looked more like a disco ball than formalwear.
“You’ll blind everyone,” Wednesday deadpanned.
“Exactly!” Enid beamed, twirling with the dress before skipping off to try it on.
Meanwhile, you pulled out a black dress with lace detailing, holding it up tentatively. “What about this one?”
Wednesday’s dark eyes flicked over the garment. “It’s acceptable.”
Your shoulders slumped slightly. Acceptable. Not exactly a glowing endorsement.
Still, you tried it on, stepping out of the changing room to model it for Wednesday. Enid, still deliberating over shoes, didn’t even notice.
“Well?” you asked nervously, smoothing the fabric.
“It fits,” Wednesday replied, her tone flat.
Your lips pressed together. You turned back into the dressing room, emerging moments later with another option—a deep red gown with a flowing skirt.
This time, Wednesday didn’t even bother with a full glance. “You’re wasting time.”
You hesitated but said nothing, retreating once again.
Enid had already found her dress—a shimmering, ice-blue monstrosity that she twirled in with boundless excitement. Enid had never needed her approval. You, however, were another matter entirely.
You were taking far too long.
You had asked Wednesday to come under the pretense that you needed her opinion, that it mattered to you whether she liked what you wore to the dance. Wednesday had seen no reason to deny you.
But she hadn't anticipated this.
Try on a dress. Step out. Spin. Ask her what she thought.
“It’s fine,” she would say.
Then you would disappear again, unsatisfied, only to repeat the process moments later.
She was growing tired of saying it. It was fine. They were all fine. What more did you want from her?
Enid was equally enraptured, offering her own thoughts, exclaiming how each one suited you, or how it brought out your eyes, or how it matched your personality. It was nauseating. Wednesday could barely suppress the irritation clawing up her throat.
And yet, you weren’t buying anything.
Now you were in the dressing room again as Wednesday stood stiffly outside, arms folded, her fingers pressing into her own arms in an effort to restrain herself from storming out entirely. Enid stood beside her, checking her reflection in a nearby mirror.
Wednesday exhaled sharply, “This is insufferable,” she muttered.
Enid gave her a sideways glance before rolling her eyes. “Come on, Wednesday. It’s yours and Y/N’s first Raven as a couple. It’s special for her.”
Wednesday’s fingers twitched. “That does not mean she needs to try on the entire inventory of the store.”
Enid shot her a look, pursing her lips. “She just wants to look good for you.”
“She already looks fine,” Wednesday snapped.
“Then tell her that instead of acting like she’s wasting your time.”
Wednesday didn't reply. She just pressed her lips into a thin line, forcing herself to remain still as her irritation simmered beneath her skin.
It wasn’t just the wasted time, or the absurdity of all of this. Why did it matter what you wore? You were already hers. The dress would not change that.
She had never been one for compliments, nor did she see the point in them. You had asked for her opinion, and she had given it. She saw no use in anything beyond that.
You had been talking about this dance for weeks now, making sure everything was perfect. As if it mattered. Wednesday had agreed to go, hadn’t she? That alone should have been enough to make you happy.
But no, you needed a perfect dress. A dress that you would wear for a single night. A dress that would be forgotten about the second the Raven ended.
Wednesday sighed, staring at the dressing room door you had disappeared behind.
This was taking too long.
And yet, she didn’t leave.
Then, finally, you emerged again.
This time, something was different.
You hesitated just outside the curtain, fingers gripping the fabric nervously before stepping into the light.
Dark purple. The color was rich, deep, a shade that clung to your form in a way that actually—suited you. Perfectly.
Your shoulders were bare, the dress hugging your figure before flowing down to the floor in an elegant sweep. You looked...
And that realization—how much she cared about something as trivial as a dress—sent a wave of irritation curling through her.
It was just fabric. Just thread and silk. And yet, you were looking at it—at yourself—like this was the most important moment in the world.
"Well?" You asked, voice uncertain, eyes searching hers desperately for approval.
Wednesday hated that. Hated the way you seemed to need her validation for something so insignificant.
Something twisted inside her.
Hated the way you were looking at yourself in the mirror, smoothing the fabric as if it held the key to your happiness.
She folded her arms. "You’ve been trying on dresses for hours, and now you want me to shower this one with praise?"
Your smile faltered. "I just... I thought this one was better than the others."
But Wednesday didn’t say that.
Instead, her own irritation twisted her words into something sharp, something cruel before she even realized it.
“It makes you look bigger, if that’s what you were going for, then congratulations.”
The words fell from her lips like a blade, sharp and final.
For a moment, everything stopped.
Your face froze, your expression unreadable as silence stretched between you.
Enid inhaled sharply. "Wednesday!"
But you... you didn’t argue.
You didn’t scoff or roll your eyes or throw some sarcastic remark back at her like you usually would.
You just blinked once. Then, slowly, a small, forced smile curled at your lips.
And then you turned and disappeared back into the dressing room.
Wednesday watched as the curtain closed behind you, an unfamiliar tightness settling in her chest.
She didn’t understand it.
Why did it suddenly feel like she had done something wrong?
Wednesday frowned. "I told the truth."
Enid looked like she wanted to strangle her. “What is wrong with you?”
Wednesday exhaled slowly, keeping her expression impassive. “It was an honest observation.”
“No, it was you being a total jackass,” Enid snapped. “Do you even realize how hard this is for her? She already struggles with this stuff, and you—” She groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Why would you say that?”
Because she had been frustrated. Because she had been irritated. Because something about the way you cared so much about that stupid dress had made her feel…
Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t want to understand it.
But that didn’t change the fact that she had said it.
And you had believed her.
The dressing room was quiet. Too quiet.
She could imagine you inside, standing in front of the mirror, looking at yourself in that dress, picking apart every little flaw.
Wednesday opened her mouth, then closed it, suddenly unsure of what she was supposed to say.
The curtain rustled, and then you stepped out again—back in your usual clothes. Your face was carefully neutral, but your eyes...
"I’m not feeling great," you said softly, voice almost too quiet. "I think I’ll head back to the dorm."
"Y/N—" Enid started, but you shook your head, forcing another smile.
"It’s fine," you said. "I’ll come back and get the dress later. Alone."
And then, without another word, you turned and walked away.
Wednesday watched you go, her fingers twitching at her sides, that strange, unfamiliar feeling pressing against her ribs again.
She had gotten what she wanted. The endless dress shopping had finally come to an end.
Wednesday didn’t have to look to know that Enid was furious with her. The werewolf hadn’t said a single word since they left the store, not even when Wednesday had slowed her pace slightly, allowing Enid to walk beside her.
It wasn’t as if Wednesday wasn’t used to people being mad at her. It happened often. She knew she had a sharp tongue and an even sharper indifference to how others reacted to her words.
And yet, there was an unpleasant weight in her chest now, something she didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore.
She was supposed to be relieved that the torturous shopping trip was over, but she wasn’t. It didn’t feel like a victory. If anything, it felt like she had lost something without even realizing it. The moment she had seen you walk away, that cold weight had settled deep inside her, and no matter how much she tried to shake it, it wouldn’t leave.
They were halfway back to their dorm when Enid finally snapped.
"Are you just gonna pretend like nothing happened?"
Wednesday didn’t slow her pace. "That would be preferable."
Enid let out a frustrated noise as she turned to face Wednesday fully, forcing her to stop. "God, you are unbelievable! Do you even care that you hurt her?"
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. "It was not my intention to—"
"Oh, don’t give me that crap, Wednesday. You knew exactly what you were saying." Enid’s eyes were blazing, her normally bright and warm demeanor replaced with pure frustration. "She was so happy in that dress. Did you even see the way she looked at you? She just wanted you to like it. And what did you do? You insulted her. You made her feel like shit. You—"
"I am aware," Wednesday cut in, her voice quieter but no less firm.
Enid shook her head, exhaling harshly. "Then why aren’t you doing anything about it?"
Wednesday didn’t have an answer to that. Not one that made sense. Because the truth was, she didn’t know what to do. She had spent years—her entire life—keeping people at arm’s length, avoiding emotional entanglements with a precision most would consider cruel. And yet, she had let you in. Not entirely, not in the way you probably wanted, but enough that your absence felt… noticeable. Unsettling.
It irritated her. The power you had over her. The way one misplaced word from her could send you walking away, head down, shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear. She hated that image. It had been playing in her mind on a loop, and it was making her stomach churn.
Enid was still staring at her, waiting. Expecting.
"I…" Wednesday started, then frowned. "I will… rectify the situation."
Wednesday narrowed her eyes. "I will apologize."
Enid’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, really? You, Wednesday Addams, are gonna apologize? I’d love to see that."
Wednesday crossed her arms. "I am capable of admitting when I have made an error."
Enid scoffed. "Oh yeah? When’s the last time you apologized to anyone?"
Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Enid sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Look, Wednesday, I know you don’t do the whole emotions thing, but this isn’t just about being wrong. It’s about her. She’s already insecure about this kind of stuff, and you just confirmed every single bad thought she’s ever had about herself."
Wednesday’s stomach twisted unpleasantly. That was the part she couldn’t stop thinking about. She knew what insecurities could do to a person. She knew how words could burrow into someone’s mind and fester. And she knew you. Knew the way you already hesitated before speaking sometimes, as if bracing for rejection.
She had never considered her words carefully before. She never needed to. But this time, she wished she had.
"You need to fix this," Enid said, softer now, her anger tempered by concern. "Like… actually fix it. Because if you don’t, I don’t think she’s just gonna forgive you and pretend it never happened."
Wednesday hated that Enid was right. Without another word, she turned on her heel and started walking.
"Where are you going?" Enid called after her.
"To fix it," Wednesday said simply.
She had meant it when she told Enid she would fix it, but even as she approached your dorm, she wasn’t entirely sure how. Apologies were foreign to her. She had never needed to offer them before.
But the thought of leaving this unspoken, of letting you sit alone in your room, stewing in whatever thoughts she had planted in your mind, made something unbearable twist inside her.
She wasn’t the kind of person who hesitated, who second-guessed herself. And yet, there was something uneasy settling beneath her skin, something that made her movements feel unnatural.
Or rather, it was the memory of you. The way you had stood in front of her in that dress, nervous, hopeful, looking at her like she had the power to decide if it was enough. As if her opinion was the final verdict on whether you looked beautiful or not. Wednesday hated that. She hated that you gave her that kind of power, because she had never known what to do with it. And she had wasted it. She had crushed it beneath her heel without thinking.
She knew how her words could cut. She had always known, and she had wielded them like a weapon before—against people who deserved it, against people who irritated her, against people who bored her. But she had never thought of you as someone she needed to use them against. Because that was never how it had been between you.
It had been impulse, irritation spilling over before she could filter it into something sharp but playful. She was used to throwing her sharp words at you, a quip here, a remark there. You never took her harsh words seriously. You always rolled your eyes, shoved her shoulder, smirked at her like you knew her better than she knew herself. She would say something cold, and you would call her out on it, grinning like it was all some sort of game. It frustrated her to no end, but she never minded the way you pushed back. The way you challenged her in ways others never dared.
But this time, you hadn’t pushed back. You hadn’t laughed, hadn’t rolled your eyes or playfully shoved her away. You had just… shut down. You had retreated.
Wednesday sighed, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides. She hated this feeling. This gnawing, uncomfortable thing pressing against her ribs. Guilt. It was almost laughable. The Wednesday Addams, feeling guilt over a single comment? It was ridiculous. But then why did it feel so unbearable?
And worse, why had she even said it?
Because she had been irritated. Because the shopping trip had dragged on for too long. Because you and Enid had been laughing and chattering, taking turns trying things on, wasting time on something as insignificant as clothing. She had wanted to leave.
But that wasn’t the full truth.
The truth was something uglier. Something she didn’t want to name.
When you had walked out in that dress, looking at her with expectation in your eyes, waiting—hoping—for her approval, she had felt something she wasn’t used to. Something tight, clawing at her throat, making her stomach churn.
She almost scoffed at herself. How absurd. Envious of a piece of fabric. But that’s what it had been, hadn’t it? That stupid dress had held your attention, had made you light up in a way that she never had. And for a brief, infuriating moment, she had resented it.
She had wanted to remind you that it was nothing more than fabric, that she was the one standing there, she was the one who mattered, not some lifeless garment.
But she hadn’t done that. Instead, she had said something cruel.
And she had watched as all that light, all that excitement, drained from your face.
Wednesday let out a slow breath, flexing her fingers at her sides. She was nearing your dorm now, the familiar door just ahead. She had walked this path countless times, had stood before that door before. But tonight, there was a hesitation in her step.
You had looked so uncertain when you asked her to the Raven, as if you expected her to say no. She hadn’t. She had said yes, because there was no logical reason to say no. If she had to endure a night of forced socialization and dreadful music, she would rather suffer through it with you than with anyone else.
And yet, when it came to something as simple as saying I did not mean it like that, she found herself hesitating.
Apologies were not in her nature. She did not like them, did not give them, did not see their purpose. But this wasn’t just about words.
Then, finally, she reached your door.
And she lifted her hand to knock.
The sound of her knuckles against your door was softer than she intended, but still firm. Final. There was no turning back now. Not that she would have turned back even if she could.
Perhaps you would refuse to open the door. Perhaps you would open it only to slam it in her face. Perhaps you would demand to know why she was here, why she even cared enough to show up.
She had prepared for that. She had prepared for your anger.
What she had not prepared for was the sound of the door creaking open, slow and hesitant, revealing you on the other side.
You looked surprised to see her.
Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out, your eyes scanning her face as if trying to make sense of her presence. She could see the exhaustion in you, the heaviness in your posture, the way your fingers curled slightly around the edge of the door, like you needed something to hold onto.
You looked… small. Smaller than she had ever seen you before. And she hated it.
Wednesday forced herself to speak, keeping her voice steady, neutral. "May I come in?"
You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, stepping aside to let her pass.
She entered without a word, her gaze flickering over the room as you closed the door behind her. It was dimly lit, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting long shadows along the walls. A half-empty glass of water sat on your desk, untouched. Your bed was unmade, the covers slightly rumpled as if you had been lying there only moments before she knocked.
Wednesday turned to face you.
You were watching her carefully, as if bracing yourself for whatever she was about to say.
She exhaled slowly, clasping her hands behind her back as she met your gaze. "I…" She hesitated, forcing herself to ignore the way her throat tightened. "I have come to apologize."
You blinked, clearly caught off guard.
"I should not have said what I did," she continued, voice controlled, measured. "It was cruel. And inaccurate." She paused, searching your face for any sign of a reaction, but you gave her none. "It was not my intent to—"
"It's okay," you murmured.
Something about the way you said it made her uneasy.
The words were quiet, soft, but they stopped her mid-sentence.
You offered a small shrug, looking away. "You just told me the truth."
Wednesday's stomach twisted.
"I wasn’t really paying attention to my weight for the last few weeks," you continued, tone eerily neutral, as if you were discussing the weather. "I must’ve gained some."
Her fingers twitched at her sides.
She hadn’t known what kind of response to expect from you, but it had not been this. Not this quiet acceptance. Not this casual confirmation of something that wasn’t even true.
"I know it might look bad for your reputation," you said, the ghost of a smile appearing on your lips, but it was empty. "But I promise I’ll lose the extra pounds."
The words hit Wednesday like a physical blow. Her chest tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.
Her reputation? That was what you thought this was about?
Her breathing hitched, sharp and unexpected, like something had reached into her chest and squeezed. You had said it so simply, so casually, as if it were a fact. As if you truly believed it.
As if you believed she believed it.
“Stop.” The word came out harsher than intended, cutting through the air like a blade.
You blinked, looking back at her with faint confusion.
Wednesday took a step closer, fingers twitching at her sides. “Do not say that.”
Your brows furrowed slightly. “Say what?”
“That I care about that,” she hissed, voice sharper now, edged with something she didn’t fully understand. “That my concern is my reputation. That you—” She inhaled sharply through her nose, forcing the words to slow, to steady. “You are not—”
She stopped, frustration building in her chest, strangling the words before she could force them out properly.
You frowned, shifting on your feet, clearly not understanding. “Wednesday, it’s fine—”
The sharpness of her voice startled you a bit, "Then why—"
"I do not know," Wednesday admitted, frustration creeping into her tone. It was the truth, and she hated it. "I was… irritated. It was taking too long. Enid was unbearable. And then you—" She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "It was never about you. It was the dress. It was the fact that you were treating it as if it mattered more than—"
She stopped herself before she could finish that sentence.
You stared at her, your confusion evident. "The dress?"
Wednesday clenched her jaw. "Yes. The dress."
A bitter chuckle escaped your lips, but there was no real amusement behind it. "So, you were mad at the dress."
You shook your head, looking down. "It doesn’t matter, Wednesday. I get it. I just—I won’t embarrass you. I promise."
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "You are not an embarrassment."
You let out a quiet sigh, rubbing your temples. "I appreciate you coming here to say this, but it’s fine. Really. You don’t have to—"
"I do," Wednesday cut in, voice suddenly urgent. "You do not believe me."
Because you really didn’t.
She could see it in you, could see the way her words had already settled into your mind like an undeniable truth. You had already convinced yourself that she meant it, that she had only come here out of guilt, not because she hadn’t wanted to hurt you in the first place.
And that realization—that was what made panic curl around her lungs like a vice.
She had thought she could fix this with words. She had thought that if she came here, if she admitted her mistake, if she corrected what she had said, then you would understand. That you would believe her.
And Wednesday didn’t know how to undo that.
How had this happened? How had she allowed this to happen? She had meant to insult the dress, not you. And yet, somehow, her words had twisted into something worse. Something irreversible.
She took another step forward, " You do not need to lose anything. You—" She inhaled sharply, hating the way her voice almost wavered. "I never meant it. I— "
“I think I just need to sleep,” you said, voice soft.
It sent another unwanted pang through her chest.
Your eyes met hers, something unreadable lingering in them. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
It was a question, not a certainty. And that was the part that bothered her the most.
Wednesday opened her mouth, then closed it. For a moment, she thought about what to say, she wanted to fight more, tell you that whatever you are thinking isn't true.
“Alright,” she said finally, her voice colder than she intended. She hated how distant it sounded, but she didn’t know how else to be. “I’ll leave you to rest.”
The word felt bitter on her tongue.
You gave her another small, tired smile before stepping back, waiting for her to leave.
She hesitated for just a moment longer, searching your face for something—anything—that would tell her that you didn’t believe what you had just said, that you weren’t truly convinced of those ridiculous, wrong thoughts about yourself.
But there was nothing. Just quiet acceptance.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the weight of her own mistake pressing down on her shoulders like a curse.
Wednesday’s gaze never left you.
You sat directly across from her at breakfast, your usual spot beside Enid, as though nothing had changed. As though last night’s conversation had not cracked something in the foundation of whatever this was between you. But Wednesday saw everything. She always did. And what she saw now made the pit in her stomach twist, tighten, coil into something unpleasant.
Your plate was barely touched.
A few bites of fruit. Two nibbles of toast. Nothing else.
You pushed the eggs around with your fork absently, as if by simply moving them you could trick everyone into believing you had eaten them. But Wednesday was not so easily deceived.
Her fingers curled around the handle of her coffee cup. She didn’t drink. Didn’t speak. Just watched.
She knew you. Knew the way you usually ate, the small patterns of your habits, the way you would sometimes offer her the parts of your meal you didn’t want, knew that you were never one to finish quickly, but never like this.
“You’re not eating.” She finally said.
Your hand stilled for a fraction of a second before you picked up your toast, taking a deliberately small bite. “I am eating.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “That is an insultingly weak attempt at deception.”
Enid’s gaze flickered between the two of you, sensing the tension, but she didn’t interject. Not yet.
You sighed, setting the toast back down. “I’m just not that hungry.”
Wednesday didn’t believe you.
“You ate nothing but a few scraps.”
“I had a late snack last night after you left.” you added, waving your hand dismissively. “Guess I’m just full from that.”
Wednesday could see the way your fingers twitched slightly when you set your fork down, could hear the way your voice was just a little too casual, too light. You were lying, and you were bad at it.
But before she could say anything more, you abruptly pushed back your chair, “I should head to class early,” you said, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “I need to talk to the professor about something.”
Wednesday clenched her jaw.
Normally, you and she would have walked to class together. Normally, you would have waited, loitering by the table as she finished her coffee, teasing her about how her caffeine addiction was going to kill her one day. Normally, she would have rolled her eyes, insulted you for your lack of intelligence, and you would have laughed.
But today, you left without her.
The realization sat heavy in her chest.
A sigh came from beside her. “That went well,” Enid muttered, pushing the last bit of her pancake into her mouth before setting her fork down.
Wednesday turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at the werewolf. Enid was watching her now, arms crossed, lips pursed.
“You did apologize, right?”
Enid raised an eyebrow. “Really? Cause I see no effect from that.”
Wednesday clenched her jaw. “Because she dismissed it.”
Enid’s face twisted slightly. “Dismissed it?”
“She said it was fine.” Wednesday forced herself to swallow the distaste in her throat. “That it wasn’t a big deal.”
Enid let out a sharp breath, leaning back against her chair. “Well, that was a lie.”
Wednesday didn’t respond. Instead, she reached for her coffee, taking a slow sip, trying to ground herself in the bitter taste. But it didn’t help. Not when her mind was still filled with the image of you walking away from her.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Wednesday saw you in class, but you avoided her gaze. When the lesson ended, you were out the door before she even had the chance to speak. It happened again in the next period, and the next. You weren’t ignoring her outright, but you weren’t engaging, either. It was subtle. Quiet.
But Wednesday noticed everything.
By the time lunch arrived, the weight in her chest had only grown heavier.
She entered the cafeteria, eyes immediately searching for you. You were already at a table, sitting in the same seat as before, but your tray—
Wednesday’s fingers twitched.
There was even less food than this morning.
A small cup of soup. A glass of water. Nothing else.
Her teeth clenched, irritation and frustration mixing with something deeper, something she didn’t want to name. She watched as you lifted the spoon, took a single sip of the broth, and then set it back down.
Her feet carried her forward before she could stop them.
The words came from Enid, not Wednesday.
You looked up, blinking as the blonde dropped her tray onto the table before sitting down beside you.
Enid gestured toward your barely-touched meal. “That’s it? That’s all you’re eating?”
You frowned slightly. “I’m not that hungry.”
Wednesday felt something snap.
“This is the second meal you have barely touched today,” she said, voice edged with frustration. “You are lying.”
You sighed, setting your spoon down. “Guys, I don’t need you both hovering over my food. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Enid argued. “You love the chocolate mousse they have today. It’s literally your favorite, and you didn’t even grab one.”
Your jaw tightened. “I just don’t feel like eating dessert.”
Enid stared at you for a moment before glancing at Wednesday.
Wednesday met her gaze, already knowing exactly what she was thinking.
You barely hesitated before shaking your head, too quickly, too dismissively. “No. It’s fine, Wednesday. Really.”
It was the same thing you had said last night. And just like last night, she didn’t believe you.
She wanted to push, to force you to say the truth, to make you understand how wrong you were for thinking the way you did. But Enid shot her a look that said- Let her eat at least this or she will leave unfinished again, and for once, Wednesday held her tongue.
The rest of lunch was quiet.
And then, just like breakfast, you left early.
“This is ridiculous,” Wednesday muttered.
Enid scoffed. “Yeah? Well, welcome to feelings, Wednesday.”
“I have to fix this,” Wednesday said, more to herself than to Enid.
Enid studied her for a moment, then sighed. “Well, you’d better hurry. Because if she keeps going like this…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I will fix it.”
The first time she tried to fix it, it was simple. Direct. She waited until the two of you were alone after class, cornering you before you could make your usual excuse to leave.
You barely blinked at her, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “I do eat.”
A flicker of something passed through your expression—annoyance, maybe, or discomfort—but it was gone before she could decipher it. You sighed.
“Wednesday, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”
She stared at you, unblinking. “No, you’re not.”
A small, dry laugh escaped you, and you shook your head. “You’re being dramatic. I told you, I’ve just been feeling off lately.”
“I don’t care what excuse you come up with. You’re not eating, and I know exactly why." Wednesday snapped.
For a moment, something flickered in your gaze—hesitation, uncertainty. Then, your lips pressed into a thin line, and you took a step back. “I don’t want to do this right now.”
And just like that, you were gone.
The second time, she came prepared. If words alone wouldn’t reach you, she would try something else.
She didn’t need Enid’s help to know what your favorite foods were. She had memorized them over time, despite never meaning to, despite never understanding why she remembered insignificant details about you so easily. But now, she put that knowledge to use.
She found them, each one, and placed them in front of you at lunch, setting them down with deliberate precision. You blinked at the sight, your brows furrowing as you looked at her.
“You’ve been avoiding food. If you refuse to eat the meals given to you, then I will find ones that you cannot resist.”
For a second, just a second, she thought she had succeeded. Your fingers brushed against the edge of the plate, your expression unreadable. But then, your hand withdrew, and you gave her a small, forced smile.
“That’s sweet of you, Wednesday, but I just had an apple and I’m not that hungry right now.”
The irritation inside her flared. “You’re never hungry anymore.”
You sighed, shaking your head. “I told you, I—”
“Are you truly incapable of coming up with a better excuse?” Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. “Every time, it’s the same thing. ‘I’m not hungry,’ ‘I’m just feeling off,’ ‘I’ll eat later.’ It’s all meaningless. You are wasting away in front of me, and you expect me to do nothing?”
You didn’t answer immediately. Your fingers twisted together in your lap, your eyes darting away, and for the first time, Wednesday saw it—guilt.
But it wasn’t guilt toward yourself. It wasn’t guilt for what you were doing to your own body. It was guilt toward her.
Like you believed that you were an inconvenience.
The realization hit her like a knife to the ribs.
You weren’t punishing yourself because you wanted to. You were punishing yourself because of her.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” you said softly, eyes still cast downward. “But I’m okay. Really.”
And then you stood up, tray untouched, leaving her there with nothing but her own frustration and a meal that you would never eat.
It was the fifth day now, and your avoidance had only gotten worse. Every meal was an excuse, every moment together felt like walking on glass. Even Enid had started pressing you more, but it didn’t matter—nothing seemed to reach you.
Wednesday found you in the courtyard, sitting on one of the stone benches, your gaze distant as you absentmindedly flipped through a book in your lap. She didn’t bother with a greeting. She simply sat down beside you, close enough that you couldn’t ignore her presence.
You sighed before even looking up. “Wednesday.”
“How long do you intend to keep this up?” She asked straight up.
You frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She clenched her fists. “Yes, you do.”
For a moment, there was silence. You stared at your book, but your eyes weren’t moving across the pages. Then, finally, you exhaled and looked at her.
“Why do you care so much?”
The words shouldn’t have hurt. But they did.
Wednesday’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she could do nothing but stare. Then, her fingers twitched, her voice tightening. “Because you are—”
She stopped herself before the words could slip out.
Because you are important to me.
Because the thought of you hurting yourself because of me is unbearable.
She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Because I don’t like seeing you like this.”
You looked at her for a long time, studying her, as if searching for something in her expression. Then, your lips curled into another weak smile, and you shook your head.
“I’ll be fine, Wednesday.”
You said it so gently, so kindly, as if you were trying to comfort her.
Wednesday sat there, alone. She had lost count of how many times she had watched you walk away now.
And she had no idea how to make you stay.
Wednesday had never been one for hope. It was a fragile, useless thing, prone to shattering at the slightest misstep. But as she walked beside you toward breakfast, she allowed herself the smallest sliver of it, the thinnest thread of belief that today would be different.
Today, she would fix this.
Her plan was simple—ruthlessly so. She would sit beside you, not across. She would place your plate in front of you and refuse to let you leave until you finished everything on it.
If you so much as tried to make an excuse, she would shut it down before the words could even leave your mouth. It was harsh, perhaps. But so was the alternative. So was standing by and watching you slip further away from her, your body weakening, your presence growing more distant by the day.
She refused to let that happen.
She glanced at you, noticing how you walked a bit slower... to slow. “Are you alright?”
Your lips parted at the question, like you were thinking of an answer. Then, after a second too long, you nodded. “Yeah. Just tired—”
Wednesday barely had time to process the shift before your body suddenly gave out.
She caught you before you could hit the ground.
Her arms wrapped around your body instinctively as she lowered you to the ground. For a heartbeat, she thought—hoped—that you were just dizzy, that you would blink up at her, disoriented but awake, that you would make some flippant joke about losing your balance.
Your body was limp against her own, your breathing shallow, your skin cold.
Something inside Wednesday snapped.
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t think. She just moved.
Her grip tightened around you as she pulled you closer, her heart hammering violently against her ribs, her pulse a brutal, erratic drumbeat in her ears. The usual sharp, methodical clarity she carried in dire situations was gone, replaced instead with something raw and all-consuming.
She had never felt fear like this before.
Never—not in the face of monsters, not when staring death in the eye, not even in the moments where her own life had been at stake. But this? This was different. This was something she couldn’t fight, couldn’t outthink, couldn’t control.
She barely registered the way the students around her froze in shock, barely heard Enid’s sharp gasp as she ran forward, her voice high and panicked. Everything blurred at the edges, her focus narrowing to the unconscious weight in her arms.
She had failed, and now you were—
No. No, you were still breathing. Faint, but there. You were still here.
She didn’t say a word as she hoisted you up, as she carried you with a grip that was both impossibly firm and terrifyingly desperate. Enid scrambled beside her, speaking—yelling—something, but Wednesday couldn’t hear her. The blood rushing in her ears was too loud.
All she could do was walk. Move forward.
She didn’t stop. Not until she reached the infirmary. Not until she had laid you down. Not until the nurse had taken you from her arms, pushing her back, ushering her out.
And then—she was waiting.
Sitting outside the infirmary doors. Hands curled into fists so tight her nails dug into her palms.She stared at the floor, her jaw clenched so hard it ached, but she didn’t care. She barely felt it. All she felt was the weight pressing down on her chest, suffocating, inescapable.
Every second stretched unbearably, the minutes dragging into something endless, torturous. She had never been patient, had never liked the sensation of waiting. But this wasn’t just waiting.
Wednesday shot to her feet immediately, her body moving before her mind could catch up. The nurse barely had time to look at her before Wednesday demanded, “What happened?”
The words were sharper than intended, edged with something she didn’t want to name. The nurse exhaled, crossing her arms.
“She collapsed due to malnutrition. Her glucose levels had dropped to a dangerously low level—hence, the loss of consciousness. I started her on an IV to stabilize her, but she’s severely lacking in proper nutrients. This didn’t happen overnight.”
Wednesday knew that. Of course she knew that.
“She’ll be okay,” the nurse added after a pause, her tone softening slightly. “But this isn’t just a passing issue. If this continues, it could become significantly more serious.”
She didn’t need to hear if this continues because of you. She didn’t need to. The words echoed loud enough inside Wednesday’s own skull.
She barely nodded. The nurse lingered for a moment, as if contemplating saying something else, but then she sighed and stepped away, leaving Wednesday alone once again.
The blonde had been quiet until now, watching, waiting. But as soon as the nurse disappeared, she moved forward, her expression unreadable.
“You’re blaming yourself.”
Enid sighed, “Wednesday…”
“I am to blame,” she said simply, her voice flat, empty. “There is no need to sugarcoat the truth. This started because of me.”
Enid frowned. “I’m not saying what you said didn’t have an impact. But you didn’t make her stop eating. You didn’t force her to do this.”
Wednesday’s fingers twitched at her sides. “I didn’t have to. My words were enough.”
Enid sighed again, quieter this time. She hesitated, then carefully sat beside her. She didn’t reach out, didn’t try to touch her, and Wednesday was grateful for that. She wouldn’t have been able to tolerate it.
“She’s gonna be okay,” Enid murmured, voice softer than before.
Wednesday swallowed, staring straight ahead. “She shouldn’t have to be okay. She shouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.”
Enid exhaled, shaking her head. “You love making yourself the villain, huh?”
Wednesday’s jaw tensed. “I don’t—”
“Look, I get it. You feel like you caused this. And maybe, yeah, what you said did affect her. But, Wednesday, this is not just on you. That’s something in her mind that we need to help her with. You don’t fix this by beating yourself up.”
Wednesday didn’t respond.
Because she didn’t believe that.
Because she knew the truth.
And she had no idea how to make it right.
Wednesday hadn’t moved from her spot.
She sat there, her spine straight as ever, hands folded rigidly in her lap, her eyes fixed on your face. She had watched every slight movement—every twitch of your fingers, every shallow rise and fall of your chest, every slow inhale that never seemed quite deep enough.
She didn’t move, but inside, she was crumbling.
She didn’t allow herself to blink as your eyelids fluttered. She didn’t exhale as your breathing shifted, as your fingers curled slightly against the thin sheet draped over you. Then, finally, finally, your lashes lifted, and the moment your gaze met hers, something in her cracked.
Relief hit her first. A sharp, overwhelming thing that seized her chest, nearly stole her breath. She had prepared herself for worse—prepared for another stretch of waiting, for something deeper than sleep. But you were awake.
But the relief barely had time to settle before guilt surged up to choke it out.
You looked exhausted. The shadows under your eyes were more pronounced than ever, and your skin, normally warm with life, still held a pallor that made her stomach twist.
“…What happened?” Your voice was hoarse, quieter than usual.
Wednesday’s fingers twitched. “You collapsed.”
Your brows furrowed slightly at her words, as if you hadn’t quite processed them.
“Oh.” Your voice was quiet. Distant. “I didn’t think it would be that bad…”
Something inside Wednesday snapped.
She had spent the last week watching you waste away in front of her, agonizing over every missed meal, every bite you left untouched. She had spent every waking moment searching for ways to fix it, to reverse the damage, to bring you back before you slipped too far.
And now, here you were—lying in a hospital bed, looking as fragile as she had ever seen you—and you had the audacity to act like this wasn’t serious.
She wanted to be angry. She wanted to scold you, to demand how you could let this happen to yourself, how you could do something so reckless and still dismiss it as if it were nothing.
But how could she, when she was the one who had pushed you over the edge in the first place?
Her fingers twitched in her lap. The words burned in her throat, sharp and bitter.
And then you exhaled, turning your gaze downward. “I’m sorry if I caused you trouble…”
Wednesday inhaled sharply through her nose.
“No.” The word left her lips before she could stop it, firm and unwavering. “No, you do not get to apologize for this.”
Your brows furrowed slightly, but before you could protest, she continued.
“You collapsed,” she said, her voice steady, controlled—but underneath, there was something else. Something fragile. “You were starving yourself. And you still think you should be apologizing to me?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
Wednesday leaned forward ever so slightly. “You are not a burden to me.” Her voice didn’t waver, but she felt something tighten in her chest. “Nothing I said was ever meant to make you doubt that.”
Your eyes flickered to hers. There was something unreadable in them, something distant.
“I never meant it.” Her voice softened, but there was an urgency beneath it, a desperation she couldn’t quite mask. “Not once. Not in a million lifetimes.”
She had spent so long trying to find the right words, and now that she had them, she didn’t know if they were enough.
She just wanted you to believe her.
She just wanted you to be okay.
“…I’ll try to balance things a bit more.”
It was barely a whisper, a quiet, reluctant offering, but it struck Wednesday like a blow to the chest.
You weren’t supposed to balance things. You weren’t supposed to change. You weren’t supposed to let her words sink their claws into you so deeply that you felt the need to shrink yourself into something smaller, something less.
But before she could argue, before she could say anything, you turned your face away. You turned your head away from her, your face shifting out of her view.
“I’m feeling sleepy.” Your voice was soft. Detached. “I think I’ll rest for a bit.”
And just like that, the conversation was over.
Wednesday sat there, staring at you. She wanted to keep talking. Wanted to shake you awake, keep you with her just a little longer, find the right words to make you understand.
And this time, as you drifted away, she knew—this wasn’t just sleep.
This was something deeper. Something worse.
Wednesday watched, That was all she could do now—watch, observe, analyze every shift in your expression, every movement, every breath, hoping, praying, that she was wrong.
The day you left the infirmary, you sat at the breakfast table with your tray in front of you, and for a brief moment, Wednesday felt something almost like relief. There was food on your plate. Not enough, but more than there had been before. A single bite of toast, a small portion of fruit. She waited, staring, barely touching her own food as she watched to see if you would eat.
You did. A small bite. Then another.
The way you chewed was hesitant, methodical, like you were forcing yourself. There was no absentminded conversation, no playful remarks, no soft laughter as you nudged Enid when she told a ridiculous story.
It was quiet. Stiff. Empty.
Enid tried to make up for it, talking twice as much to fill the silence, but it was all wrong. Because this silence—it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t natural.
It was a void, stretching further and further, swallowing you whole.
Wednesday’s stomach churned as she watched you pick up a spoon and push your food around your plate.
You thought she didn’t notice when you stopped after three bites. When you placed your utensils down too early and excused yourself.
And still, she said nothing.
What could she say? She had already broken you. If she pushed too hard, you would only retreat further. But if she didn’t push at all…
She wasn’t sure which was worse.
And now, Wednesday sat at her desk,staring at the blank pages of her notebook, her mind spiraling.
You weren’t getting better. You were only pretending to. For her.
She could feel it, the weight of it, pressing in on her lungs. You had already decided. You believed, wholeheartedly, that you had to change. That she wanted you to change.
She had never intended for her words to hurt you. She never thought—never even imagined—that you would take them so deeply, let them fester inside of you until they ate you alive.
Because she had let them.
Because she had been the one to plant them in the first place.
The way you moved, slower than before, as if some invisible force was dragging you down. The way you laughed, short and muted, never quite reaching your eyes. The way you smiled at her—not the way you used to, not the soft, effortless warmth that had once made her stomach twist in ways she couldn’t understand, but something practiced. Forced.
She knew that you thought you were a burden to her. She saw it in the way you spoke to her now, careful and measured, as if testing the weight of every word before you allowed it to leave your mouth. She saw it in the way you responded to her attempts to fix things—never annoyed, never upset, only guilty.
And worst of all, she saw it in your eyes.
You had always looked at her. Always.
She had never acknowledged how much she had relied on it until it was gone.
Before, you had looked at her like she was something more than just Wednesday Addams. Not an untouchable force, not a figure to be feared, but simply her. You had looked at her with fondness, with exasperation, with an affection that she hadn’t fully known what to do with.
Now, you barely met her gaze. And when you did, all she saw was uncertainty.
You had once been so full of life. So sweet. You had come into her world with laughter and warmth, with a stubbornness that rivaled her own, and an unwavering certainty that you wanted her, that you had chosen her.
Wednesday sat at the foot of her bed that evening, hands curled into fists against her knees, staring at the wall as the realization settled deep into her bones, cold and unshakable.
She had taken the light in your eyes and twisted it into something fragile, something easily broken.
She should have known better.
She should have known better.
Wednesday prided herself on being meticulous, on never making mistakes, on calculating every possible outcome before making a move.
But with you? She had let herself act on impulse, let herself give in to the worst parts of herself, and now she had to watch as the consequences slowly unraveled right in front of her.
And she couldn’t let it continue.
Wednesday inhaled slowly, , forcing herself to think, forcing herself to act.
You would never stop punishing yourself for her as long as she was here. As long as she was standing at your side, you would keep believing that you had to change for her, that you had to mold yourself into something smaller, something less.
So she had to leave first.
You needed to be mad at her. Mad enough to stop punishing yourself for her. And if that was the only thing she could do to fix this, then she would do it. Even if it destroyed her. Even if it meant you hating her.
Because at least then, you would be okay.
Her footsteps felt heavier than ever as she made her way toward your room, each step slower than the last, as if her body was resisting what she was about to do. Her stomach churned, her breath uneven, her mind screaming at her to stop.
She hesitated in front of your door, her fingers hovering over the handle.
But one that would save you.
"Wends?" you murmured, and the name was a blade to her throat.
She felt it—felt the way you said it, the love behind it, the warmth, the trust. She didn’t deserve any of it.
Wednesday forced herself to take you in one last time. She memorized every detail, every delicate curve of your face, the way your eyes softened just for her, the way your lips parted as if to say more. She knew this was the last time she would be able to look at you like this, the last time you would ever look at her this way—without fear, without doubt, without the weight of betrayal hanging between you.
Her chest ached with something unbearable, something foreign, something she wanted to cut out of herself before it ruined her resolve.
She swallowed the hesitation, the pain, forced it all down into the pit of her stomach, where it twisted and festered but could not touch the surface. She willed herself to become stone, to become something cold and untouchable, something that could not be reached, could not be reasoned with.
And then, she killed the thing she loved most.
"I am ending our relationship."
The words fell like an executioner’s axe. Cold. Final.
She watched the way your body froze, the way your breath hitched ever so slightly, the way your hands tensed where they rested against your lap. Your lips parted, then closed again, confusion clouding your eyes.
At first, you just blinked at her, as if trying to process the sentence, as if your brain refused to put the words together in a way that made sense. "What?" you finally breathed, voice barely above a whisper.
Wednesday did not move. Did not flinch. She forced herself to remain perfectly still, like a statue, like a corpse.
She had to make you believe this.
She had to make you hate her.
"I’m not feeling anything anymore," she said, the lie thick on her tongue, thick in her throat. Her voice was flat. Detached. Something dead and distant.
You recoiled like you had been slapped.
And then—just like that—the dam broke.
"What—what are you talking about?" Your voice was raw, uneven. You stood up, stepping toward her, reaching, desperate to close the distance, desperate to fix whatever this was. "Wednesday, what are you saying?"
She should have stepped back. She should have let the distance grow, should have put more space between you so that you couldn’t reach her, couldn’t touch her, couldn’t make this harder than it already was.
But she didn’t move. She let you get close—close enough that she could feel the heat of your body, close enough that she could see the unshed tears shining in your eyes.
"I don’t love you anymore," she said, forcing every word to sound empty, forcing herself to become the monster you needed her to be.
“Wednesday, what are you talking about?” Your voice wavered, tears coming out of your eyes. “You don’t—this isn’t—just talk to me—”
Wednesday kept herself still, perfectly composed, even as her entire world was falling apart right in front of her.
“Talk to you?” she repeated, her voice as cold as she could make it. “What is there to talk about? It’s simple. I don’t want this anymore.”
"Tell me the truth," you begged, desperate now, searching her eyes for something—anything—that would tell you this wasn’t real. "Tell me what’s really going on, because this—this doesn’t make any sense."
She clenched her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms, the only thing keeping herself grounded, the only thing keeping herself from breaking.
"I don’t owe you an explanation," she said, and she hated herself for the way your face crumpled, the way your breathing grew uneven, the way you looked at her like she was a stranger, like you didn’t recognize her anymore.
The question came so softly that, for a moment, she almost believed she had imagined it.
But then she met your gaze, and she saw the devastation there, saw the way you were holding onto the last thread of hope with trembling fingers.
Another blade through your heart.
She turned away. She could not let you see. Could not let you catch the crack in her mask, could not let you see the way her own vision had started to blur, how her own hands had started to shake.
She moved toward the door, her steps measured, steady, controlled.
But before she could leave, before she could escape this nightmare she had willingly walked into, you spoke again.
"I would have done anything for you," you whispered, and it was not a plea, not a desperate attempt to make her stay. It was just a fact. Just the truth.
And that—that—was what destroyed her.
She gripped the door handle so tightly her knuckles went white.
She did not let herself turn back.
She did not let herself hesitate.
And she did not stop walking. Not when her breath started coming out uneven, not when her throat felt tight, not when her own nails bit into her palms hard enough to draw blood.
She walked and walked, until she was no longer sure where she was going, until she found herself outside her own dorm, until she found herself stepping onto the small balcony, alone beneath the night sky.
She thought about all the things she had stolen from you.
And she thought about how you would be better off without her.
You would heal. You would move on. You would live.
That was all that mattered.
The door behind her slammed open, and Wednesday didn’t even need to turn to know who it was.
“Why Wednesday!” Enid demanded, “Why the hell would you do that?”
Wednesday exhaled slowly.
Because it was carved into her heart.
It would always be carved into her heart.
[Author's note: To all my readers who think they aren't perfect, "Perfect" isn’t about how you look—it’s about the way the right eyes find something irreplaceable in you. Beauty isn’t measured by numbers or mirrors chief, it’s in laughter, in kindness, in the way you exist just as you are. You don’t have to shrink yourself to be loved. You are already enough, exactly as you are.]
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