You weren’t sure what you expected when you accepted the offer to become Nevermore Academy’s on-site therapist. A chance to help students who lived on the fringes of society? Yes. Maybe some light emotional breakthroughs and occasional confessions of hidden powers or social alienation? Sure.

What you didn’t expect… was Wednesday Addams.

The girl didn’t knock on your door during her first appointment — just opened it, stepped in like she owned the floorboards, and stared at you as if you were a mild disappointment. You were halfway through offering her a seat when she cut you off:

“This is a waste of time. But I was told attendance is mandatory. So here I am.”

You smiled, leaning back in your chair with a casual shrug. “Then let’s waste time efficiently.”

She arched a brow. That was the first flicker of interest.

You learned quickly that Wednesday didn’t “open up.” She dissected. She questioned. She tested you like a lab experiment, waiting for you to flinch under the weight of her bluntness or nihilistic humor.

You didn’t flinch.

In fact, you leaned into it. You matched her sarcasm with dry wit. You let silence stretch when she wanted silence. You didn’t write anything down unless she told you to. And, perhaps most importantly, you never tried to “fix” her.

Because you understood — she wasn’t broken.

She was simply sharp in a world that padded everything in bubble wrap.

Week after week, she came back.

At first, she told you nothing personal — only philosophical ramblings, dark metaphors, and hypothetical murder plots. But little by little, she shifted. She spoke of her childhood, of Morticia and Gomez, of her complicated disdain for emotions, and her quiet longing for someone to understand her without trying to soften her edges.

You never called it progress.

You knew better.

But when she walked in three months later, sat down without being prompted, and muttered, “I had a thought this morning and it annoyed me, so I figured you’d find it interesting,” you allowed yourself the smallest internal smile.

Now… months in, she still arrives — always early, always silent at first — but no longer cold.

She crosses her legs, adjusts the sleeves of her black blazer, and stares at the ceiling while she speaks. Sometimes it’s about nightmares. Sometimes about her roommate. Sometimes it’s just a quote she found that reminded her of herself.

And she always finishes the session the same way:

“I still think this is useless. But it’s slightly less intolerable than most things.”

You always nod.

And somehow, that means: Thank you. I trust you. I’ll be back next week.

Today is no different.

She steps in without knocking.

But instead of standing like a wall, she walks in and drops herself onto the couch, expression neutral but eyes more open than when you first met.

“I don’t think i’m straight.”