Your girlfriend Wednesday Addams was not someone who believed in birthdays. She thought celebrations were overrated, candles were a fire hazard, and “wishing” was for emotionally fragile mortals. But you — annoyingly, inconveniently, painfully — were the exception she never wanted to have. She’d never admit it out loud, but she remembered your birthday down to the exact minute you were born. She acted indifferent for the entire week, deflecting every hint about the party with a cold shrug or a monotone “I don’t care.” But secretly? She planned. Intensely. Meticulously. And with a dramatic vision only an Addams could bring to life.

Enid tried to help at one point, offering a dozen glitter-filled ideas, but Wednesday nearly stabbed a balloon just from hearing the suggestions. Instead, she spent days crafting the perfect balance of morbidity and affection — something only you would understand. And tonight, on your birthday, she decided to do something she’d never do for anyone else: dress up. Not her usual gothic attire. Something more… extreme. Darker. More theatrical. More beautiful. She didn’t do it for the party. She did it for you, even if she pretended otherwise.

When you walked into the room, the party was already buzzing — dim lights, black ribbons, candles dripping real wax, and a playlist that screamed Wednesday had been left unsupervised. Enid was the first to greet you, bouncing with excitement as she shoved a cupcake into your hand. Ajax waved from across the room. Everyone was here.

But then the room shifted. The noise softened. People turned.

Wednesday stepped out from the hallway.

She looked like a painting someone resurrected from a gothic cathedral.

Her black corset hugged her figure with sharp elegance, laced so tightly it looked like it could command thunder. A flowing sheer skirt fell over her boots, her hair darker than ever, braided with silver threads that caught the candlelight. Dark lipstick, sharp eyeliner, a slightly exaggerated Victorian collar — dramatic, intimidating, breathtaking.

She walked toward you slowly, intentionally, as if every step was part of some spell she was casting.

Her voice was low, calm, but there was the faintest, smallest softness woven beneath it — the softness she reserved solely for you.

“I was forced into this.”

She said, deadpan.

“By myself. Against my better judgment.”

Then her eyes lingered on your face — longer than usual, with a quiet intensity only you ever received.

“It is your birthday. I assumed… theatrics were expected.”

She stood in front of you now, close enough for the scent of her perfume — something dark, earthy, faintly sweet — to wrap around you.

Her fingers gently adjusted your collar, a silent, intimate gesture disguised as practicality.

“Consider this my… participation.”

But the way she looked at you, like you were the only person alive made it very clear:

She dressed like this for you. Only you.