Chapter Text
“Enid.”
Enid glanced up from her mindless scrolling on tiktok, then back down. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“What do you do with your feelings?”
“Like, in general, or me, specifically?”
“You, specifically.”
“I feel them,” she said simply.
Wednesday fought the urge to groan. Or gag. Possibly vomit. “Would you please elaborate?”
Enid puts her phone down on her chest, and looks up at the ceiling. “I mean, I dunno. Your body tells you what you need to do to feel the feeling, you know? Like sometimes I get so angry I want to scream, but sometimes I get so happy I want to scream. Every feeling is different, but it’ll tell you what to do with it. In my experience at least.”
“And what if the feeling doesn’t tell you how it wants to be felt?”
“Then I write it down,” Enid replied, motioning towards her Feelings Journal.
It was a simple college ruled composition notebook, but the one thing that Wednesday refused to snoop through. Enid wrote it in frequently- glitter pens were the bane of Wednesday’s existence, and she would die on that hill, and that’s the only reason she’s noticed.
Wednesday doesn’t have a journal. But she does have a typewriter.
“I see. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Wednesday turned her focus back to her book, but didn’t read. She thought, then stood up, then went to her typewriter.
Enid,
I find myself in a peculiar dilemma, recently. You see, your patience with me, while grating at first, has allowed me to room to come to actually care for you. And I don’t know how to feel that feeling.
When you smile, snakes writhe in my stomach. When you cry, I burn with such anger that I worry I will burst into flames, if only to burn away whatever made you upset.
I don’t understand you, Enid, nor will I pretend to. You’re so vibrant compared to every other aspect of my life, however, that I am inexplicably drawn to you. And the implications of that are far worse than I would care to imagine.
“Whatcha writing?”
“Nothing,” Wednesday immediately replied, tearing the paper from the typewriter. She hastily crumpled it and threw it in the trash can without a second glance, then got up and put on a jacket. “I’m going outside.”
“M’kay.”
Enid,
I write as you sleep, hoping the words will come to me as your dreams to you, but they elude me still.
Have I ever told you about my parents? They met at this school. They are disgustingly in love with one another; you can see that they are each other’s reason for breathing, for being. I vowed I would never rely on another like that. And yet.
And yet, I think of you constantly. And yet, you make me want to smile. And yet, it doesn’t even hurt.
You have made your way into the stone I call my heart, Enid. And I don’t know how.
“Wednesday?” Enid’s murmur pulled Wednesday out of her thoughts.
“Yes?”
“It’s late. You should go to bed.”
“Of course. You should go back to sleep.”
“M’kay.”
Wednesday tore the paper off the typewriter and threw it into the trash. Enid was already back to snoring quietly.
Enid,
For a month now I have been writing letters that I will never give to you. It feels so repetitive- every day, the same thing. I think of you, I want you, I miss you, even though you’re practically right beside me all day, every day.
I asked my father how he knew he was in love with my mother, back in the beginning, and he just laughed a little, said that I’d know. I asked him how I’d know if I didn’t know what to look for. He said that it’ll feel like nothing, but everything. I’ll wake up one day and never be able to imagine not waking up to someone, that that person would be able to reach me when no one else can.
I want to know, Enid, what you have done to me. Because before you, I was fine, but now… now, I can’t imagine waking up without you already running around the room like a madman, singing along to awful pop music. I can’t imagine going home after graduating and never seeing you again. I can’t imagine a world without you.
I’d die for you, Enid. I’d kill for you.
I’d live for you.
And now that I know what I feel, I also know how I want to feel it- I want to hold you. I want to play songs on my cello for your ears alone. I want to dance with you, like how my mother dances with my father. I want to be with you. But how am I to do that when I don’t know if you feel the same?
I can’t imagine I’ll write many more letters that will never be read, for I’ve said all that I can. I know how I feel, but I am unable to feel it. It is the worst torment I have ever felt.