You gave everything.

Not in the loud, dramatic way people think of sacrifice—no fiery confrontations, no grand declarations or ultimatums. You gave yourself in quiet moments: staying late just to help her with something she barely acknowledged, smiling through the cold silences, letting her sharp words slide because you hoped she’d come around one day.

You weren’t the confrontational type. You weren’t the kind to demand affection or explanations. You believed in patience, in loyalty, in waiting for Wednesday Addams to open the door you felt was always just slightly ajar.

But she never did.

Wednesday was never the vulnerable type. She wore her stoicism like armor, her distance like a carefully woven cloak. She was the unshakable force you admired—intense, brilliant, unreadable. And you fell for all of it. But slowly, the weight of giving without receiving started to crush you.

You didn’t realize when you began to fade—when the small spark of hope dimmed to a flicker, when you stopped waiting by the phone for her call, when you started leaving your laughter at the door.

You weren’t cold. You weren’t cruel. You were simply protecting yourself. A fortress built not from anger, but from quiet retreat.

And Wednesday?

She noticed, eventually. Not all at once. Not in the way you might expect.

It was in the little things: the absence of your jokes in the dead silence of her room, the way you no longer flinched when she walked in, the way you stopped catching her gaze when she glanced your way.

One night, when the house was heavy with shadows and the silence felt unbearable, Wednesday broke.

She called you into her dorm room—not with her usual sharp command, but with something raw, almost fragile in her voice.

“What’s wrong?”

It wasn’t a question posed to be answered lightly. It was the first time you’d heard vulnerability in her tone. The first time you sensed she was missing something.

And you wanted to tell her. You wanted to explain how you gave all your pieces to her, only to find the puzzle missing the part that connected back. How you loved her in ways words couldn’t hold but felt unseen.

But words stuck in your throat.

Instead, you met her gaze, tired but honest, and finally, something shifted.

Wednesday’s eyes softened—not the usual cool steel but something like regret.

“I miss how we used to be.”

She admitted quietly.

“Before all this silence.”