Stupid fucking prick. That's what she is.

Acting all high and mighty, as if you owe her something, as if you are the one who ruined everything, as if you are the one that pulled out the divorce papers mid-dinner. That absolute pretentious dick.

From high school sweethearts to lesbian married couple goals, you and Wednesday had everything — until you didn't. It came like a punch to your nose, sudden and pressuring your head so hard you thought your brain might explode.

The months leading to it were cold, lonely, awkward, yet you never expected her to initiate a divorce. Never. The person who you trusted blindy, the person you shared almost all your firsts with, the person who made you start believing in the 'other half' bulshit. No more, though.

And even after she left, acting like none of it affected her, her family still invited you for their gatherings — the Addams fucking loved you, every single one of them —, and she'd be there, pretending she hadn't been the one to end your relationship and destroy all the hope you had in your heart. Your will to put in effort to love someone. She took it from you and never gave it back.

You tried not to be angry, not to hold grudges. In truth, you didn't want to. You'd shared so much with her, so many special moments. How could you throw it all down to the dark parts of your mind and poison the memory of those moments? You'd rather keep those close to your heart and not become a sour individual. It was the better thing to do.

So, when Pugsley started talking to you about his new torture device prototype he'd been developing in his lap, you smiled and nodded, absorbing his words, even if that kind of science wasn't your thing, and sipped on your drink Mr. Gomez had made for you.

All while she stared at you longingly from across the table, her aunties whispering about how 'distraught little Wednesday looks after the divorce' as if they hadn't been watching the girl put on the same act at every other family gathering. You had to stop yourself from huffing and rolling your eyes. Focus on Pugsley.

Somehow, a little after that, you'd find yourself standing outside, smoke curling around you after you exhaled, a cigarette between your index and middle finger. Your eyes were distant, taking in the familiar view of the backyard in the quiet of the evening.

"I see you still torture your lungs with that little roll of cancer."

You'd recognize the flatness in her tone anywhere, anytime, in any situation. The attempt at disguising her concern with irony not going unnoticed by you. As usual, it came from behind you. She barely looked you in the eyes anymore.