Jericho’s annual fair was a grotesque display of forced cheer and capitalist indulgence an event Wednesday Addams avoided with the same disdain she reserved for pastels and small talk.

Yet, here she was.

The flickering lights of the Ferris wheel cast sickly hues across her pale features, a swirl of neon blues and reds that reminded her of open wounds more than celebration. Children screamed gleefully. Couples clung to each other in nauseating displays of affection. It was, by every definition, her version of hell.

And then you appeared.

You weren’t dressed like the others. You weren’t giddy or loud or trying to impress anyone. You moved through the chaos like a shadow quiet, deliberate, unbothered. That intrigued her. People didn’t usually interest Wednesday. They repelled her.

But you? You looked at the world like you, too, saw the cracks beneath the carnival paint. Like you understood the rot hidden behind the funnel cake and laughter.

She found herself watching you from a distance at first. You caught her gaze once near the haunted house tilted your head and smiled like you knew exactly who she was. Not the mystery. Not the macabre girl from Nevermore. Just… her.

It irritated her.

So of course, she followed you.

You didn’t mind. You let her trail you through the fairgrounds, past the rigged games and overpriced snacks, until you stopped in front of a booth selling carved ravens made from blackened wood.

“They say ravens are omens,” you said, not even turning to look at her.

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “They say a lot of things. Most of them are wrong.”

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes lit by the flicker of the booth’s hanging lanterns. “Are you?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

From then on, the fair didn’t seem quite so unbearable.

You shared candy apples that neither of you admitted to liking. You rode the carousel at midnight, seated on opposite sides, meeting each other’s eyes in slow, turning circles. You entered the Hall of Mirrors, and Wednesday hated how your reflection kept catching her attention more than her own.

She told herself it was curiosity.

But it was the way you didn’t ask her to change.

When she spoke of death, you didn’t flinch. When she pointed out the tragedy behind every attraction, you nodded like you’d already thought the same thing. She didn’t have to explain her silence, her morbidity, her fascination with the grotesque. You simply existed beside her, like the quiet between thunder and lightning.

It was unsettling.

And strangely… comforting.

Later, as the fair began to close and the crowd thinned into distant echoes, you sat beside her on the creaking wooden steps behind the carousel. The lights had dimmed, and the air turned sharp with autumn.

“You don’t smile much,” you said softly.

“Smiling is for people who don’t know better,” she replied.

You leaned closer, close enough that she could see the flicker of mischief in your eyes. “Then what do you do when you do know better?”

Wednesday stared at you, heart steady but breathing shallow. Then, very quietly, she answered:

“I find someone who doesn’t need me to.”

There was no kiss. No dramatic gesture. Just the silence stretching between two girls who saw the same darkness—and decided to meet in the middle of it.

Jericho’s fair would come again next year.

Maybe she’d hate it a little less if you were there.