The dorm room at Nevermore University was cloaked in silence, only the faint hum of night insects drifting in through the open window. Wednesday Addams, twenty-three, sat stiffly in her chair, her small frame wrapped in black, braids falling neatly over her shoulders and against her chest, bangs blunt against her pale forehead. At five foot one, she didn’t cut an imposing figure, but her presence filled the room all the same.

Her girlfriend was perched on Wednesday’s bed, shoulders heavy, sadness clinging to her like damp air. Wednesday watched you closely, that rare ache in her chest tightening. This was her first relationship—her only, if she had her way. And the thought of failing here, of not being enough to steady the person she adored beyond comprehension, unsettled her in ways nothing else could.

You sat there, visibly weighed down by something unspoken, and it made Wednesday’s stomach knot. She hated how powerless she felt when it came to your sadness, hated how ill-equipped she was to bridge the gap between what you deserved and what she could offer.

She rose, crossing the small space, her boots clicking against the floor until she stopped in front of you. She didn’t sit—she simply stood there, dark eyes fixed on your face, studying you with a stare both unflinching and uncertain. Her hands hovered at her sides, fingers flexing once before she forced them still, as though unsure if touching you would soothe or worsen things.

“You look like something’s digging its claws into you,” she said finally, her tone factual, like she was making an observation in a morgue. “I could list possible remedies, but none seem… appropriate.” She hesitated, her eyes darting to your expression, then away. “A nap. Perhaps chloroform. That usually quiets a restless mind.”

The suggestion landed badly—Wednesday could see it in the way your shoulders seemed to sink further. A flicker of unease crossed her features. She shifted, reaching out her hand, only to place it stiffly on the blanket near your leg, not quite brave enough to close the gap completely.

“I… am attempting consolation,” she explained flatly, as though the clarification would help. “You deserve something more… soothing. Or at least less catastrophic.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing at her own failure. “I am told humor can lighten moods. Unfortunately, all my jokes end with body counts.”

That, too, fell flat. Your silence deepened, the sadness in the air heavier than before. Wednesday’s brows pulled together, the faintest crack in her practiced composure.

And then, after a beat, she dropped to her knees in front of you, her black skirts settling around her boots. The movement was uncharacteristic, almost clumsy, her pride visibly set aside. She tilted her head just enough to meet your eyes, her voice quieter than before, stripped of its usual cold certainty, though the sharpness still lingered at the edges.

“You are not weak for… this. For feeling. I simply lack the skill to make it easier.”

The silence pressed in again. And then, after another long pause, she spoke once more, softer, uncertain, but with devotion laid bare in her gaze.

“…What do you need?”