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It’s funny how life changes, because ten years ago I couldn’t even say a proper sentence in front of her, and now she’s my wife.
We’ve been married for ten years, together for almost fifteen, and sometimes, when the house is quiet and the kids are asleep, I still find myself thinking about the first time I saw her standing near that fountain with a camera in her hands, and how my whole personality just stopped working.
Love doesn’t always begin loudly, not with big moments or something that feels like a scene out of a movie, because sometimes it starts quietly, in ways you don’t even notice at first.
Ten years earlier,
I didn’t fall for her in some dramatic, movie like way.
No slow motion.
No background music.
No life-changing moment.
I just looked up one random Tuesday afternoon and there she was.
It started outside the humanities building.
I was sitting on the steps with Yoko, Divina, and Bianca, surrounded by fabric samples, sketch papers, and emotional stress. Midterms were coming, and my design professor had already rejected my collection idea three times.
“I’m telling you,” I said, waving my pencil in the air like it had personally offended me, “fashion is suffering right now. Like, deeply suffering.”
Divina didn’t even bother looking up from her work. “You say that every single week, Enid.”
“Because every single week I suffer,” I shot back immediately. “It’s a pattern. A very toxic, academic pattern.”
Yoko leaned back on her hands, looking way too relaxed for someone who wasn’t being personally attacked by a design course. “You chose this life. No one forced you.”
“I chose creativity,” I said, turning to her, offended. “Not emotional damage. There’s a difference.”
Bianca sighed, finally glancing at my half-finished sketch. “You’re being dramatic. Just finish it. It’s not that bad.”
I stared at the page like it had betrayed me. “It is that bad. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. This was supposed to be a collection, and now it looks like, I don’t even know what this looks like.”
“It looks like you’re overthinking,” Divina muttered.
“I am overthinking,” I said. “That’s the problem. I can’t stop. I start one idea, then I hate it, then I start another, then I hate that too-”
“Enid,” Bianca cut in, a little more firmly this time. “Finish the sketch.”
“I will,” I said, exhaling dramatically. “After I question every life decision I’ve made that led me to this exact moment.”
Yoko snorted. “You’re not dropping out.”
“I didn’t say I was dropping out,” I said quickly. “I’m just emotionally considering it.”
Divina finally looked up at me, completely unimpressed. “Pick up your pencil.”
“I am holding the pencil,” I said, lifting it slightly. “That’s already progress.”
Bianca shook her head. “Draw.”
“Fine,” I muttered, looking back down at the page.
Later that day, during lunch, Bianca, Yoko, Divina, and I were sitting at our usual table, eating and talking about random things like we always did. At first, it was just normal conversation, nothing serious, but somehow it slowly shifted into something more personal, and before I even realized it, we were talking about relationships.
In our group, Yoko and Divina were already dating, very much in their own world half the time, while Bianca had gone through a breakup but still somehow believed in love more than anyone else I knew. And then there was me, Enid Sinclair, who had already had her first heartbreak back in San Francisco after four months of dating someone who decided we weren’t compatible.
It had hurt, a lot more than I liked admitting, but it had also been one of those conversations that stayed with you, the kind that makes you think about yourself differently. I was still grateful for it, even if it didn’t end the way I wanted. After that, I moved here for my studies, and I hadn’t really dated anyone since.
I was halfway through my lunch, not really paying attention anymore, when I heard my name.
“What about you, Enid?” Divina asked, looking at me with that knowing expression she always had. “What’s your type?”
I nearly choked on my drink and coughed lightly before setting it down. “My type?”
“You’ve never dated anyone here,” Bianca pointed out, watching me carefully.
“Which is suspicious,” Yoko added, leaning back slightly.
I let out a small breath, trying to come up with something normal, something that wouldn’t turn into whatever this conversation was clearly trying to become.
Instead, for some reason, I thought of her.
“I think I like quiet people,” I admitted, a little slower than I meant to.
All three of them just stared at me.
“You?” Bianca said, like she genuinely couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“I mean it,” I continued, even though now I was very aware of how this sounded. “Someone calm. Someone who observes more than they talk. Someone intense, but not loud about it.”
Divina leaned forward immediately, way too interested now. “Okay, continue.”
I hesitated for a second, then sighed softly. “You know how I dated Maria back in San Francisco,” I said, glancing between them, “and how she told me that sometimes we see things in other people that we recognize in ourselves, but that doesn’t always mean we’re actually compatible?”
They nodded, listening properly now.
“When I got back home after that, I thought about it a lot,” I went on, my voice quieter without me meaning it to be. “And I think now I just want someone who is different from me in the right ways. Someone who’s really passionate about something specific. Someone simple, honest, maybe a little intimidating.”
Bianca raised an eyebrow, clearly judging every word. “That is extremely specific.”
Divina smirked like she had already figured something out. “You already have someone in mind.”
I looked down at my plate, not answering.
Because I didn’t want to.
Because if I said it out loud, it would become real.
But when I glanced toward the window without thinking,
There she was again.
Camera in hand, standing in the same quiet way, completely focused on whatever she was capturing.
Yoko followed my gaze almost instantly and then leaned forward, squinting slightly. “Oh my god.”
Bianca didn’t even need a second look before she sighed, like everything had just made sense. “That’s your type.”
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
The first time I tried to talk to Wednesday Addams, I spent forty minutes preparing, which, in my opinion, was already a sign that things were not going to go well.
I wasn’t even doing anything useful during those forty minutes. I kept pacing around, sitting down, standing up again, fixing my hair for no reason, opening my sketchbook like that would somehow help, and then immediately closing it because I couldn’t focus on anything.
Yoko, who had been watching me this entire time with zero sympathy, finally spoke up. “You know you always sound weird when you overthink this much, right?”
“That is not helpful,” I said, stopping mid-step to glare at her.
“I’m just being honest,” she replied, completely unbothered. “If you go like this, you’re going to say something strange.”
“I am not going to say something strange,” I insisted, even though I already felt like I would.
Bianca, who had been looking out toward the courtyard, suddenly spoke without turning around. “She’s outside.”
Everything in my brain stopped working.
“What?” I asked, way too quickly.
“Courtyard,” she repeated, finally glancing back at me. “Near the fountain. Same as earlier.”
For a second, I just stood there, processing that, and then without thinking too much about it, I grabbed my sketchbook like it was some kind of excuse to exist outside and walked out before I could change my mind.
The moment I stepped into the courtyard, everything felt louder and quieter at the same time, like I was suddenly too aware of everything around me. It didn’t take long to spot her.
She was exactly where Bianca said she would be, standing near the fountain with her camera in hand, completely focused on what she was doing. I slowed down as I got closer, my steps becoming more hesitant with each second, like maybe if I walked slowly enough, I could figure out what I was supposed to say before I actually reached her, like something would just come to me at the last second and save me from whatever this was about to become. It didn’t.
Five minutes later, I was standing right in front of her, close enough to actually see her properly this time, close enough to realize that this was a terrible idea, and yet somehow still not close enough to turn around without it being obvious. She noticed me after a second, of course she did, and her eyes lifted from the camera to me, steady and direct, like she was waiting for a reason for my existence there.
I opened my mouth, and everything I had prepared completely disappeared. “So” I started, immediately aware that this was already going wrong. “That’s a camera.”
There was a pause, a very real, very noticeable pause. She blinked once, her expression not changing at all. “Yes.”
I nodded like that was new information. “Right. I-yeah. I figured.” Another pause followed, and this one felt even worse. I tightened my grip on my sketchbook, forcing myself to say something normal before I made this even more embarrassing. “I’m Enid,” I blurted out, a little too quickly. “From design. Fashion design, I mean.”
She watched me for a second longer than necessary, like she was deciding whether this interaction was worth continuing. “Wednesday,” she said finally.
I stared at her, genuinely thinking for a second that I had heard it wrong. “Wednesday?” I repeated, and then before I could stop myself, a small laugh slipped out. Not loud, not mean, just surprised. “Like, the day?”
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even react. She just looked at me, completely still, completely serious, and somehow that made it worse. My smile slowly dropped as I realized she wasn’t joking. “I’m-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-it’s just-I’ve never met anyone named-I mean, it’s a nice name, it’s just different.”
She continued staring, unblinking and unimpressed, and I could actually feel myself getting worse the more I tried to fix it. “So, um,” I said, panicking slightly now, gesturing vaguely toward her camera like I was restarting the conversation from zero. “You’re in photography?”
“Yes.”
“Right. That makes sense,” I said quickly, nodding like I had just solved something important. “Because of the camera, which I already pointed out, so that was redundant.”
Silence settled between us again, heavier this time, and I could actually hear my own heartbeat in my ears. “I should go,” I said suddenly, taking a small step back. “I have things to do. Design things. Somewhere else.”
She didn’t stop me. She didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at me like she was memorizing the entire disaster for later, and in that exact moment, standing there with my sketchbook in my hands and absolutely no dignity left, I seriously considered leaving the country.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
A few days later, the departments decided to make my life significantly more complicated.
Apparently, the fashion design and photography departments were collaborating for a portfolio project, something about “visual storytelling” and “interdisciplinary presentation,” which sounded great in theory and absolutely terrifying in practice. The professors had already made the pairs themselves, which meant none of us had any control over who we were working with.
We were all sitting in the studio when the list was finally put up.
Bianca got up first, walking over casually like she didn’t care, even though she definitely did. Yoko and Divina followed, and I stayed back for a second, pretending to organize my sketchbook even though I was very obviously stalling.
“Enid,” Yoko called out after a moment, and there was something in her tone that immediately made me suspicious. “You might want to come see this.”
“I don’t like how you said that,” I replied, but I got up anyway and walked over, already preparing myself for something mildly inconvenient at worst.
It was not mildly inconvenient.
I scanned the list once, then again, slower this time, just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.
Enid Sinclair & Wednesday Addams.
I stared at it for a solid five seconds before stepping back like the paper had personally attacked me.
“No,” I said under my breath.
“Oh, it’s very much yes,” Bianca said, clearly enjoying this more than she should. “Congratulations. You got your type.”
Divina smirked, leaning slightly closer to look at my face. “This is actually perfect. I don’t even have to say anything. The universe already did it for me.”
“I don’t want the universe to do things for me,” I said quickly, still staring at the list like it might change if I looked at it long enough. “I want the universe to mind its own business.”
Yoko crossed her arms, watching me with way too much interest. “You’re going to have to talk to her again.”
“I already talked to her,” I said.
“That wasn’t talking,” Bianca replied. “That was a situation.”
“It was not a situation,” I argued.
“You pointed at her camera and told her it was a camera,” Divina reminded me.
“I panicked,” I said, which felt like a very reasonable explanation.
“And now,” Yoko added calmly, “you’re paired with her for an entire project.”
I closed my eyes for a second. This was bad. This was very bad. But also, somewhere under all the panic, this was something.
“Okay,” I said finally, taking a small breath. “It’s fine. It’s just a project. People do projects all the time. I can be normal for a project.”
All three of them looked at me like that was the least believable thing I had ever said.
“Go,” Bianca said, nodding slightly toward the other side of the room.
I followed her gaze, and there she was, standing slightly apart from everyone else, holding a few printed photographs and looking at them like the rest of us didn’t exist. Of course.
I adjusted my grip on my sketchbook and walked over before I could change my mind again. When I stopped in front of her this time, it wasn’t as sudden as before. She noticed me, but there was no surprise in her expression, just that same steady look as her eyes lifted to meet mine.
“I think we’re paired,” I said, holding up the list slightly like proof, even though she had probably already seen it.
“I am aware,” she replied.
I nodded quickly. “Right. That’s good. That means we both know.”
She didn’t respond, but she didn’t look away either, which felt like progress.
“So for the project,” I continued, trying to sound at least a little normal, “I’ll be working on the designs, and you’ll handle the photography, and we just combine it?”
“That is the objective,” she said.
“Right,” I said again, nodding. “Makes sense.”
There was a small pause, but it didn’t feel as bad as before. She was still watching me, but this time it felt more like she was observing rather than waiting for me to leave, which I decided to take as a good sign.
“I like your pictures,” I said, a little more carefully this time.
“You have not seen them,” she pointed out.
“I’ve seen you take them,” I replied quickly, and then immediately realized how that sounded. “Not in a weird way, just like around. You were taking pictures, and they looked good.”
“That is statistically improbable,” she said, completely serious.
I blinked. “Okay. That sounded better in my head.”
She studied me quietly for a moment, her gaze steady but not uncomfortable this time.
“You are that fashion student who spoke to me a few weeks ago near the fountain,” she said, like she was stating a fact she had already confirmed.
“You remember me?” I asked before I could stop myself, a little more surprised than I meant to sound.
“Yes.”
And for absolutely no logical reason, my heart did something reckless, like that one word carried more weight than it should have. I tried not to show it, nodding like that was a completely normal response and not something I was going to overthink later.
“Okay,” I said, softer this time. “That’s good.”
Another brief pause followed, but it didn’t feel heavy like before. It felt manageable, like I wasn’t actively making things worse just by standing there.
After a moment, she glanced down at the photographs in her hands and then back at me, her expression still calm, still unreadable. “We should begin planning. Your designs will determine the structure of the shoot.”
Which, in Wednesday language, meant enough.
And somehow, this time, I didn’t feel like leaving the country.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
Those three months didn’t feel like something big while they were happening. They weren’t loud or dramatic or anything you could point at and say this is where everything changed. It was just small things, repeated enough times that they slowly became something familiar. At first, we only met because we had to, because the project required it, because our names were on the same list and there was no way around it. But after a while, it stopped feeling like an assignment and started feeling like routine.
We began to find each other without really planning to. Sometimes it was after class, sometimes near the courtyard, sometimes in the studio where she would be adjusting her camera while I tried to fix something in my design that suddenly didn’t look right anymore. We didn’t talk all the time, and when we did, it wasn’t long conversations, but it didn’t feel empty either. I got used to the quiet, to the way she observed things before speaking, to the way she noticed details I didn’t even realize were there.
She started photographing my work like it actually mattered, like every piece deserved attention, and somewhere along the way, that started meaning more to me than I expected. I stopped overthinking every second around her. I stopped trying so hard to fill the silence. Being there just felt easier.
And that was the part that scared me a little.
Because it wasn’t just a project anymore.
It was her.
By the time the project ended, I didn’t know what to do with that.
The final day came quietly. We submitted everything, stood there while the professors looked through our work, said what they had to say, and moved on like it was just another assignment completed. People started leaving, talking, laughing, already thinking about what came next, but I stayed there for a second longer than I needed to.
So did she.
She picked up her things, adjusting the strap of her camera like she always did, ready to leave, like this was it, like everything we had just spent three months building was about to end without being acknowledged at all.
And I couldn’t let that happen.
“Wait,” I said, before I could stop myself.
She paused and looked at me, calm, steady, like she was already listening.
I hesitated for a second, then asked, a little quieter than usual, “Did you enjoy my company?” The moment the words left my mouth, I felt the need to fill the silence before it turned into something worse. “I mean, I did,” I added quickly, almost tripping over my own words. “I really did. I liked working with you. You’re, you’re really good at what you do. The way you see things, the way you focus on details-it’s different. I learned a lot from you, Wednesday. Seriously.”
I stopped myself there, because I could feel it getting too honest.
She didn’t answer immediately.
She just looked at me, the same way she always did when she was thinking, quiet and focused, like she was choosing her words instead of just saying something easy.
For a second, I almost regretted asking.
Then she spoke.
“Your designs are deliberate,” she said first, her tone even, like she was stating an observation. “You commit to your ideas. That is uncommon.”
I blinked, not expecting that at all.
Then she added, after the smallest pause, “Your presence is comforting.”
That was it.
No extra explanation, no change in her expression, no attempt to match the number of words I had just said.
Just that.
And before I could respond, before I could even process what she had said properly, she turned and walked away like it was a normal answer, like she hadn’t just said something that would stay with me for a long time.
I stood there, not moving, not saying anything, just trying to catch up with what had just happened.
Because for a second, it felt like everything had stopped.
And then, slowly, I smiled.
Just standing there like an idiot.
Completely, helplessly in love.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
After the project ended, I expected things to fade out naturally, like most temporary things do. We didn’t have a reason anymore, no shared deadline, no structured meetings, nothing forcing us to stay in each other’s space. For a few days, it actually felt like that was going to happen, like we were slowly returning to whatever we were before all of this started. We would pass each other around campus, exchange brief looks or small nods, and keep walking like that was enough.
But it wasn’t.
It started quietly, the way everything with her seemed to start. One afternoon, I found her in the library, sitting near the window with a few printed photographs spread out in front of her, the light falling across the table in a way that made everything look softer. I wasn’t planning to sit there, I told myself that at least, but somehow I still walked over and took the seat across from her like it was the most natural thing to do.
She didn’t question it.
She just glanced up once, acknowledged me, and went back to what she was doing.
After that, it kept happening. Not every day, not in a way we ever talked about, but often enough that it became routine. I would find her in the same place, or she would already be there when I arrived, and I would sit across from her with my notes or sketches while she worked on her photographs. Sometimes we studied, sometimes we worked in silence, and sometimes there were small conversations that didn’t last long but stayed with me anyway.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It felt shared, like it belonged to both of us instead of something that needed to be filled.
I stopped noticing the time when I was there, stopped checking my phone, stopped feeling like I needed to be somewhere else. Being with her, even without talking, felt like enough, and that was new for me in a way I didn’t know how to explain.
Weeks passed like that, slowly and steadily, and without realizing it, I started looking for her before I even sat down anywhere. If she wasn’t there, I noticed it immediately. If she was, everything felt a little more settled, like something had quietly fallen into place.
One afternoon, while we were sitting in the courtyard after leaving the library, she spoke without looking at me.
“There is a cafe near the east gate.”
I glanced at her, slightly confused by the sudden shift in conversation. “Okay?”
“I go there occasionally. Their black coffee is acceptable.”
I waited, because I had learned by now that she didn’t say things without a reason.
Then she looked at me.
“You may accompany me.”
For a second, I just stared at her, because that wasn’t just information. That was an invitation, even if she didn’t say it like one.
“Yeah,” I said quickly, trying to sound normal and not like my brain had completely stopped working. “I mean-yes. I can do that.”
She nodded once, like that settled it.
The cafe was exactly what I expected, quiet and simple, the kind of place that felt like it belonged to her. She ordered her coffee without hesitation, like she had done it a hundred times before, while I stood there pretending I wasn’t overthinking my own order. We sat by the window, and the conversation came in small pieces, not constant, not forced, just enough to fill the space naturally without making it feel heavy.
After that, we didn’t go back.
We walked instead, without deciding to, without saying anything about it, just continuing in the same direction because neither of us stopped. The campus was quieter by then, the light softer, everything slowing down in a way that made the moment feel more noticeable.
Then she spoke.
“I find your absence unpleasant.”
I stopped, turning toward her. “What?”
She looked at me, calm and steady as always. “When you are not present, it is noticeable. And undesirable.”
It took me a second to process that, or maybe I understood it immediately and just needed time to accept it.
“Therefore, I conclude that I have romantic feelings for you.”
I stared at her for a moment, and then, before I could stop myself, I said, “You could have just said that.”
There was a brief pause, and then, very slightly, she smiled. It wasn’t obvious or exaggerated, just a small shift, something so subtle that I might have missed it if I wasn’t already looking at her so closely, but it was there.
And for a second, I forgot how to think.
Because she had dimples.
Actual dimples.
I had never seen that before. And suddenly, very clearly, very seriously, my brain decided that I wanted to see that again. More than that, I wanted to be the reason it happened. I wanted to trace them, memorize them, maybe even, okay, that was a thought for later.
“Right,” I said, blinking like I had just come back to reality. “Okay. Um, I should probably say something equally composed now.”
She didn’t respond.
She just watched me, and somehow that made it worse.
“I like you,” I said finally, and then immediately shook my head. “No, wait, that sounds too simple. I mean, I do like you, obviously, but it’s more than that. I like being around you, even when we’re not talking, and I notice when you’re not there, which is very inconvenient for me, by the way.”
She tilted her head slightly, still listening.
“And I think you’re, a lot, in a good way. Like, intense, but not loud, and you care about things in a way that’s kind of terrifying but also really impressive, and I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like you before.”
I paused for a second, exhaling quietly.
“So yeah,” I said, softer now. “I have romantic feelings for you too. Just, less structured.”
For a moment, neither of us moved, and it didn’t feel awkward, just different, like something had shifted into place and we were both aware of it.
Then she stepped a little closer, not suddenly or impulsively, just enough to close the distance that had always been there. Her hand came to my wrist, light but intentional, like she was checking something instead of assuming it, and I didn’t pull away. If anything, I moved closer without thinking, my hand lifting slowly until it rested near her shoulder.
She watched me the entire time, steady and focused, like she wanted to be sure.
There was a quiet pause, and then she leaned in slowly, giving me enough time to stop her if I wanted to.
I didn’t.
The kiss was careful, not rushed, like everything else about her, but it still felt certain, like something that had been building quietly for a long time had finally found its way out. For a second, everything else disappeared, and all I could focus on was the fact that this was real.
When we pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough to breathe, just enough to look at each other again.
And just enough for me to notice those dimples again.
And yeah.
I was definitely in trouble.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
Four years didn’t feel like a long time when I looked back at it, but when I actually tried to remember everything that happened inside those years, it felt like a whole lifetime had quietly folded into itself.
It started slowly, almost uncertainly, like neither of us really named what was happening even after it had already started. We didn’t announce anything, didn’t label it at first, we just continued. Continued sitting together, continued walking back from classes, continued finding reasons to be in each other’s space without ever admitting that it had stopped being accidental a long time ago.
When we finally did start dating, it wasn’t dramatic. It was just understood.
After that, everything changed in the smallest ways that ended up meaning the most.
Wednesday, who never did anything without purpose, started showing up with things I didn’t expect from her. Sometimes it was a single flower placed on my desk without explanation, sometimes it was something small she had noticed I liked but had never actually said out loud. She never made a big deal out of it, but she always watched my reaction like she was collecting data on it.
And I was completely, embarrassingly gone for her.
I started doing the same in my own way. Matching things, soft things, things that made no sense for her aesthetic but somehow still ended up belonging to both of us. Small coordinated pieces, accessories, tiny shared items that weren’t loud but felt like ours. She never said much about it, but she kept everything.
Our “dating life,” if anyone had been watching it from the outside, would have probably looked strange. Quiet, intense, private in a way that didn’t leave much room for outside opinions. But inside it, it felt full.
Wednesday had her own version of care, and I learned it over time. She didn’t do softness the way I did, but she did it consistently. She would adjust my coat without asking, walk me closer to the inside of the pavement without making it obvious, and at night, when we were alone, she would pull me closer without saying a word like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And then there were the neck kisses.
They were never planned, never announced, just sudden moments where she would step closer, pause like she was deciding something, and then press a quiet kiss against my neck like it was the simplest form of communication she had. Every time it happened, my brain stopped working for a few seconds, and she always noticed, which somehow made it worse.
I became shamelessly attached to her hoodies. Since she had her own single room, I would end up staying there more often than I ever intended to. What started as short visits turned into days where I just didn’t leave, because somehow being there felt easier than anywhere else.
Her room became a kind of shared space without ever officially becoming one. My things slowly started existing there without permission, and she never removed them.
When I finally introduced her properly to my friends after a year of keeping things quiet, it didn’t go smoothly, not because anyone was rude, but because they cared too much in their own very different ways.
Yoko stared at her for a long moment, the kind of stare that felt less like judgment and more like analysis mixed with immediate suspicion, like she was already preparing five worst-case scenarios in her head. Bianca reacted faster, turning toward me with a look that said she couldn’t believe I had kept something this important from her for so long, like she was personally offended on principle. Divina said very little at first, just watched everything quietly, but her silence was the kind that meant she was already forming conclusions she wasn’t going to say out loud.
And me, I think I was just standing there hoping it wouldn’t turn into a disaster.
Wednesday, on the other hand, didn’t react to any of them the way they expected. She didn’t try to impress them, didn’t explain herself, didn’t soften anything. She just stood there completely composed, like being observed, questioned, and silently evaluated by three very intense people was simply another normal situation she had no intention of participating emotionally in.
It took time, not one conversation, not one meeting.
Time.
Yoko eventually stopped acting like she was waiting for a mistake and started acting like she was reluctantly accepting that no immediate disaster was happening. Bianca slowly shifted from offended to overly invested, which honestly made things worse in a different way because she started analyzing everything like she was part of the relationship herself. Divina, as always, remained calm, but her occasional comments became less like judgment and more like quiet acknowledgment that this was real.
Eventually, they stopped resisting it.
Not because they were fully convinced at first.
But because they saw me and they saw that we weren’t unsure.
After that, we didn’t hide it anymore.
Our dates weren’t loud or planned. They were quiet, unstructured things that just happened. Cafes we ended up in without deciding, long walks that started as “just a little” and turned into hours, sitting together in silence that no longer felt empty but familiar, almost grounding.
And nights, nights were the easiest.
She would pull me closer without saying anything, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and I would always stay longer than I meant to, every single time, like leaving was something my body forgot how to do when she was near.
“So you really cried?” Adrian asks, tilting his head slightly like he is trying to calculate whether it was an acceptable amount of emotional reaction or not.
“Yes,” I answer simply, because there is no point pretending otherwise at this stage of my life.
“For how long?” Iris adds immediately, still holding one of Wednesday’s photographs like it is evidence in a case she is personally invested in.
I hesitate for a moment, thinking back without meaning to, the fountain, the Polaroids, the hug that had felt like it had been waiting four years to happen, the way everything had finally shifted into something irreversible.
“Long enough,” I say finally.
“That’s dramatic,” Adrian concludes with the confidence of someone who has never experienced being in love or explaining it.
“It was necessary,” I reply, because that is the only correct way to describe it.
There is a pause in the room, warm and familiar, filled with scattered toys, sketch papers, and photographs that never quite get organized because our life never really fits into order anyway.
Then a voice comes from the doorway, calm and precise in a way that instantly changes the atmosphere without trying.
“Your emotional instability was expected.”
We all turn at once.
Wednesday is standing there, already fully present in the space like she had been part of it the entire time. Her camera bag hangs from her shoulder, her expression as composed as always, like she has just walked in from somewhere equally quiet and controlled. Iris reacts first, running straight toward her without hesitation.
“Mama,” she calls out, and Wednesday immediately kneels to meet her at her level, accepting the hug without resistance, her hand resting briefly at the back of Iris’s head in a way that is soft but still unmistakably Wednesday.
Adrian follows a second later, a little more measured but still quick, wrapping his arms around her in the same way he always does, like this is routine, like she has always been exactly this present in their lives.
Her eyes move to me then, finally, and it feels the same as it always does when she looks at me like this, as if everything else in the room quietly stops existing for a second without either of us needing to acknowledge it. She doesn’t rush the moment, she doesn’t change her expression, she just looks at me in that steady way of hers that I have gotten used to over the years, the kind of gaze that never feels loud but somehow always feels complete.
“You are narrating events,” she says, like she is simply confirming something she already knows rather than reacting to it.
“I am telling a love story,” I answer, watching her the way I always do, like even after years she still manages to feel slightly unreal in how she exists in my life so completely.
She walks toward me without breaking eye contact with the children still clinging to her, leans down slightly, and presses a brief kiss to my forehead, a gesture so familiar now that it feels less like a surprise and more like a quiet ritual we never officially named.
“Acceptable,” she says softly, like that is her approval of both the story and my emotional state.
She sits beside me after that like she has always belonged there, our shoulders naturally touching without either of us adjusting for it, the kind of contact that has long stopped needing acknowledgement.
Adrian studies us for a moment, very seriously, like he is evaluating something important and coming to a conclusion he takes pride in.
“Mommy, your taste in women was good,” he announces.
I let out a quiet laugh before I can stop myself, shaking my head slightly.
“Of course it was,” I say automatically, because there has never really been any doubt about that.
Wednesday doesn’t even pause before responding, her tone completely unchanged, as if she is correcting a factual error rather than reacting to a compliment about herself.
“Debatable,” she says calmly. “You once referred to a camera as ‘camera.’”
The children immediately burst into laughter at that, the sound filling the room in a way that feels normal now, like it has always belonged here, like this version of our life has always existed.
I turn slightly toward her, narrowing my eyes a little.
“We are not discussing that,” I say, and she simply continues looking forward as if she has already won whatever argument that was supposed to be.
Later that night, the house is finally quiet. The kids are in bed, Adrian fell asleep early because he has to wake up tomorrow for his sports training, and Iris, as usual, demanded a story from Wednesday before sleeping. Of course, Wednesday gave in. She always does when it comes to her. She can deny the world, but not her daughter, not when Iris looks at her like that, and honestly, I don’t think she even tries to resist anymore.
Now it’s just us.
Wednesday is sitting on the couch, going through the photographs from the exhibition, occasionally telling me small details about her day in that calm, matter-of-fact tone of hers, like she isn’t aware that I’m barely paying attention to the words and more to her.
I watch her the way I always have.
She notices, of course she does.
“You are staring,” she says without looking up immediately.
“I always stare,” I reply, not even pretending to deny it.
“You do.”
She finally looks at me then, and there’s something softer in her expression than what she shows anyone else. Her hand moves toward mine resting on the table, her fingers closing around it with quiet familiarity before she lifts it slightly and presses a kiss against my knuckles.
It’s simple.
It’s something she has done a hundred times.
And it still does something to me every single time.
I tighten my fingers around hers, not letting her pull away completely.
“You know,” I say softly, a small smile slipping in without effort, “you were always my type.”
She looks at me properly this time, steady, composed, like she’s evaluating a statement she already agrees with.
“Yes,” she says.
“I am aware.”
I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head a little. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I have been told,” she replies, completely serious, which only makes it worse.
Before I can say anything else, she stands, still holding my hand, and without explaining, she gently pulls me up with her. I follow without questioning because I’ve learned by now that she always has a reason, even if she doesn’t say it out loud.
She leads me toward the side table where her phone is resting beside a small speaker, picks it up, and after a second of scrolling, a soft song starts playing through the room.
Until I Found You - Stephen Sanchez.
Our song.
Of course it is.
I look at her, already smiling. “Really?”
“You did not object to it previously,” she says, like that’s explanation enough.
“It’s not an objection,” I say, stepping closer. “Just predictable.”
“I am consistent,” she corrects.
“Yeah, that’s one way to say it.”
Her hand finds my waist then, steady and sure, pulling me closer without hesitation, and I slide my hand up to the back of her neck, fingers resting there naturally like they’ve memorized this place over time. We don’t rush it. We never do. We just move slowly, in sync without needing to think about it, like this is something we’ve always known how to do.
Our bodies fit together easily, familiar, close enough that there’s no space left to question anything, and for a moment, everything else fades into the background, the house, the day, the years, all of it settling into something quiet and steady.
“You’re staring again,” she murmurs this time, her voice softer now.
“Can you blame me?” I say, just as quietly. “You literally married me and still look like that.”
“That is not a logical argument.”
“It’s a very valid argument.”
Her fingers tighten slightly at my waist, not correcting me, not arguing further, just there.
We sway slowly, not really dancing in any formal way, just moving together because neither of us feels like stopping, and I can feel her watching me again now, the way she always does when she thinks I won’t notice.
“I meant it,” I say after a moment, my voice softer now. “Back then. You were exactly what I didn’t know I was looking for.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, and I know that means she’s actually thinking about it.
“You were not subtle,” she says finally.
“I was trying,” I defend weakly.
“You referred to my camera as ‘camera,’” she reminds me.
I groan. “We said we’re not bringing that up again.”
“I did not agree to that.”
I laugh, leaning closer into her, my forehead almost brushing hers. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” she says quietly, her voice dropping just slightly, “you stayed.”
There’s something in the way she says it that still gets to me, even after all these years.
“Yeah,” I whisper, my hand tightening at the back of her neck, “I did.”
She doesn’t say anything after that. She just looks at me for a second longer, and then she closes the distance the rest of the way, kissing me in that same steady, certain way that has never felt uncertain, not even the first time.
It’s not rushed.
It’s not new.
It’s familiar and deep and real in a way that only comes after years of knowing someone completely.
I pull her closer instinctively, and she doesn’t resist, her hand pressing more firmly at my waist as if there was ever a chance I’d move away.
When we finally pull back, it’s only enough to breathe, our foreheads still almost touching, the music still playing softly around us like it belongs to this moment.
And that’s the strange thing about having a type.
Sometimes it starts with a quiet moment across a courtyard.
Sometimes it begins with awkward conversations and embarrassing silences.
And sometimes,
if you’re very, very lucky,
it becomes a lifetime.
