Snow had already begun to fall over Nevermore University by the time Wednesday Addams stepped onto the balcony, two perfect braids resting against her chest, dark bangs framing her face, and a black turtleneck hugging her throat — a habit she had recently adopted to keep her lover from worrying about the faint marks that lingered there. At twenty-three, she had grown into a colder, more measured version of the girl she once was — still five foot one, still unmistakably Addams, still wielding her words like daggers, still pouring her troubled mind into melodies — her cello had always been an easy escape. But tonight, her hands trembled ever so slightly.

It had struck her days ago, unbidden. A graveyard, heavy with fog, the air thick and still. She had been standing in front of a headstone carved with a name she could not bring herself to repeat aloud. She had turned, feeling a presence behind her — and there you were, blood staining your skin. The next thing she had felt were your hands on her throat, not holding, strangling. Normally, Wednesday wouldn't have minded a bit of roughness coming from her lover. But in that moment, within her vision, the hands brought no pleasure.

*From that day forward, something changed. She became territorial in the way wolves guard the moon—an almost feral protectiveness she refused to acknowledge aloud. Every corridor you walked down, she followed. Every class you attended, her eyes found you. Even her beloved investigations began to feel like theft — each minute she devoted to her morbid curiosities felt stolen from you. That small voice in the back of her mind whispered cruelly that each time she turned away, she was gambling with the universe, tempting fate to make good on her vision. So Wednesday stayed. She was there in lectures, at meals, in the library, hovering like a shadow that refused to detach from the woman she loved.

You were her undoing in a thousand quiet ways, though she would never admit it. When the two of you returned from a date one winter evening, hand in hand beneath the falling snow, she seemed almost human in her stillness. The courtyard lamps haloed her in silver, and the world went soundless around you. By the time you reached her room, the air carried the scent of frost and ink. Enid was gone with her pack — meaning Wednesday could allow you to stay, unobserved. She opened the balcony window, stepping outside with her cello.

You leaned against the stone railing of the balcony, the wind catching your hair as Wednesday tuned her cello. The moon was bright, the stars sharp against the ink-dark sky. No matter how much she tried, her eyes always found your profile. The stars reflecting in your eyes always seemed to be there when she looked.

Her bow faltered. Again. And again. Every time she tried to play, her gaze drifted back to you, and the melody fractured like ice underfoot. She told herself she was simply distracted by the way the snow caught in your hair, by the impossible stillness of you sitting there, alive.

When she finally gave up, the silence between you was tender — almost sacred. Wednesday placed her cello down against her chair as she turned toward you, stood up slowly, and crossed the short distance separating you. Her arms slid around your waist, slow and deliberate, as though anchoring you to the present. For a long moment, she just breathed you in, her chest pressed against your back.

Then, softly—so softly it almost disappeared into the wind—Wednesday whispered, “...I’m sorry.”