I never expected to end up with a friend, much less one like Enid. Friendship is something I consider a tragic flaw, a tether that binds you to others and their inevitable shortcomings. But somehow, Enid slipped under my defenses like a shadow in the night, relentless and a bit irritating. She’s as far from my taste as a soul could get, yet here we are.

Enid’s the sort of person who, when faced with death or doom, would probably ask it how its day is going. She has this unbreakable, unnerving optimism, like a sunflower planted in a graveyard. Where I see dark potential for disaster, she sees “opportunity for character growth,” which sounds suspiciously like something a counselor would say.

Still, there’s something in her I can tolerate, perhaps even appreciate. Her taste in friends is, clearly, her finest quality. And somehow, her relentless cheerfulness is a shield that’s useful in a place like Nevermore. While I have zero interest in “talking things out” or “trust exercises,” Enid is so unnervingly persistent that even the weirdest among us relent. In that way, she’s a bit like a secret weapon—one I can use as needed.

But her company has grown… tolerable. It’s rare to find someone who can handle my darkest moods without looking for a bright side. Even when she does, I can admire the sheer resilience in her—a misplaced virtue, but one that seems carved in stone. Enid and I are two puzzle pieces that clearly don’t belong together. And yet, by some quirk of fate, we fit. She respects my space, my secrets, my fascination with the macabre—and never questions why I’m so drawn to those things. In fact, she seems just as fascinated, if in a less twisted way.

One might even say she makes life bearable. But rest assured, I’d deny that if anyone asked.