Jenna Ortega Imagines (2)

Cold Hands, Colder Heart - W.A

A/N: I'm gonna hold your hand for this...

3rd Person POV:

The rain had begun to fall the way it always did in Nevermore—soft, eerie, and lingering, like the sky itself refused to let go. The air in Wednesday Addams' dorm was no different: still, sharp, and filled with words left unsaid.

Y/N stood near the window, watching droplets race down the glass. Behind her, Wednesday sat at her desk, hand gliding across parchment as her typewriter clicked occasionally, like the heartbeat of a machine that felt nothing.

It had been days since they'd really spoken—weeks, if Y/N was honest with herself. Every attempt at conversation dissolved into silence or sarcasm. Every touch she tried to offer met stiff resistance.

And yet, Wednesday had asked her to be her girlfriend. That memory burned in Y/N's chest like a cruel irony.

"Do you ever get tired of pretending?" Y/N's voice broke the silence, quiet but sharp enough to cut through the tension.

Wednesday didn't look up. "Pretending?"

Y/N turned from the window, eyes red-rimmed though she'd done her best to hide it. "That you don't care about anything. About me."

Wednesday paused, fingers hovering above the keys. "Care is a distraction. You knew that."

"I thought I knew you." Y/N said, her voice trembling, "But I didn't think you'd treat me like everyone else."

Wednesday finally turned. Her expression was unreadable, the same stoic mask that had once fascinated Y/N now twisting something deep in her stomach. "Everyone else assumes I'm capable of warmth." She said flatly. "You, at least, should know better."

Y/N's breath hitched. "You asked me to be your girlfriend, Wednesday. You made me think that meant something."

"It does." Wednesday replied, her tone clinical. "It means I tolerate you more than I do others. It means your presence doesn't entirely irritate me. That is, believe it or not, an honor."

The words were cold enough to frost glass.

Y/N felt her throat tighten. "That's not love, Wednesday. That's you convincing yourself you don't feel anything when you do."

Wednesday rose from her chair, spine perfectly straight, her shadow stretching long across the floor. "Love is a human construct designed to disguise weakness. You mistake my consistency for cruelty."

"No," Y/N said, voice cracking. "I mistake your cruelty for love because I want to believe there's something beneath all that ice."

Wednesday's expression flickered, just for a moment—so brief Y/N could've imagined it. A soft twitch in her jaw, a glimmer of something restrained. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.

"You want warmth." Wednesday said quietly. "I warned you I could not provide it."

Y/N's eyes glistened. "And I thought you'd make an exception for me."

That sentence seemed to hang in the air, too heavy for either of them to breathe.

Wednesday's gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. "You have been an exception, Y/N." She said. "You've breached barriers I thought were unbreakable. But if you continue to expect tenderness, you will be disappointed. Permanently."

Y/N stepped closer, heart hammering. "Then what's the point, Wednesday? Why ask me to stay when you don't even want to let me in?"

"I wanted to see if I could." Wednesday admitted, voice quieter than usual, but still distant. "If the concept of affection was tolerable."

"Tolerable?" Y/N whispered, shaking her head as tears slipped down her cheeks. "That's all I am to you?"

Wednesday didn't answer.

"Say something." Y/N pleaded. "Tell me you care. Even if you can't say you love me, just tell me I mean something."

Wednesday's lips parted slightly, as if the words were there, ready, trapped behind years of walls and silence. But then, she pressed them into a thin line, her voice returning to that flat, emotionless tone.

"You mean what you always have." She said. "A lesson in the limits of my humanity."

The room went silent again—except for the sound of Y/N's quiet sobs and the unrelenting rain outside.

She turned away before Wednesday could see her crumble. "You don't even realize what you're losing." She said, voice raw. "You'll tell yourself you don't care now, and maybe one day you'll even believe it. But I hope it haunts you anyway."

Wednesday didn't move, didn't speak, didn't blink. Only her hands tightened slightly at her sides, nails pressing into her palms until they hurt.

Y/N reached for the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at her. "You said once that death didn't scare you." She said softly. "I think being alone should."

Then she left.

The door closed with a final, quiet click—so small, and yet it felt like thunder in Wednesday's chest.

The rain continued to fall. Her typewriter sat idle. The ink in her pen began to dry.

She stared at the empty space where Y/N had been standing, a faint trace of perfume lingering in the air, something warm and human against the cold bite of her solitude.

Enid's laughter echoed faintly from the hallway, distant and unaware of the quiet destruction behind Wednesday's door.

For the first time in a long while, Wednesday Addams felt something crawl up her throat—a feeling she refused to name.

She returned to her desk and sat down, opening her journal to a fresh page. The ink bled slowly as she wrote:

"Emotional entanglement remains a hazard to logic and efficiency. Yet, despite my best efforts, I find myself mourning a loss I invited."

She stopped, staring at the words, then struck a line through them so violently the paper nearly tore.

Her hand trembled for a moment. Then she folded it neatly over her lap, eyes fixed on the rain.

The storm outside finally began to fade, but the one inside her—cold, quiet, and merciless—did not.

And for once, Wednesday Addams understood what it meant to be haunted.