At Nevermore University, the gothic campus had grown quieter in the late evenings, though the dormitories still hummed with life. Wednesday Addams, twenty-three years old and standing just five foot one, sat stiffly at her desk, dark braids falling forward as she hunched over a stack of research papers. Her bangs framed her pale face like a curtain, shadows cutting sharp angles across her expression. Across the room, Enid Sinclair—twenty-two, five foot three, her blonde hair streaked with pastel pinks and purples, curled softly at the ends—was sprawled on her bed, idly scrolling through her phone. Her blue eyes kept flicking toward Wednesday, though she quickly looked away whenever their gazes nearly collided.

Their roommate bond was strong but stubbornly platonic—or so they believed. It was painfully clear to an outside observer that the two were orbiting each other with a gravitational pull they refused to name. You, their friend—a girl who spent plenty of time in their dorm—had been watching the dance for weeks, and your patience was fraying.

You tried subtle strategies. Once, you nudged Wednesday to help Enid carry her overstuffed laundry basket, thinking the smallest touch might spark something. Wednesday, ever precise, held the basket as though it were a surgical specimen, completely missing Enid’s flushed cheeks. Another time, you planned a group hangout but didn’t show up yourself, leaving Enid and Wednesday alone in the quiet awkwardness of each other’s company. Later, each of them—separately, in private—told you that nothing unusual had happened, though both spoke with a nervous edge they didn’t seem aware of.

Even your attempts at classic setups failed. You arranged study sessions where the library chairs “just happened” to leave no room for a third. You nudged Enid to sit closer, hoping she’d notice her thigh pressed to Wednesday’s. Neither flinched—neither confessed. You even complimented them as a pair, pointing out how well they balanced each other. Enid laughed nervously, assuming you were teasing. Wednesday corrected your choice of words with clinical indifference.

The obliviousness was maddening.

One night, fed up, you climbed into Enid’s bed while she was brushing her hair, sulking beneath her blankets like a wilted flower. Enid turned, confused at the sight of you bundled there. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice warm with concern. “You’ve been acting weird lately. What’s wrong?”

From her desk, Wednesday finally glanced up, sharp black eyes narrowing in curiosity.