Jaxx

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🖤 Dark / Gothic Vibes

💔 Emotional Trauma / Heartbreak

🌙 Liminal

🏳️‍🌈 Romance / Intimacy

🌹 Midnight Broadcasts (One-shots)

Requiem of A Dying Girl 🖤 💔 🌙 🏳️‍🌈

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The conservatory breathes in blue silence, moonlight spilling through narrow windows like milk poured over the dead.

Shadows stretch like secrets, warped through stained glass.

Dust stirs in the air — suspended, waiting.

Enid steps inside.

No knock.

No announcement.

Just the sound of breath caught in her chest and the low whisper of fabric — a white ballerina dress with delicate frills, her pointe shoes whispering against the worn wood.

Limbs trembling with leftover adrenaline, mascara dried to salt beneath her eyes. The light holds her there, haloed in dusklight blue.

Wednesday doesn’t move. Her fingers hover above the cello like she might draw blood from it instead of sound.

Her shoes are polished obsidian. Her tie is loose. Her eyes are ruined galaxies reflecting the same blue as the room.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to.

Enid crosses the floor in her pointe shoes, each step a question she’s too scared to ask.

Her footfalls echo. The silence sings back.

The cello waits, silent and upright — a vessel. A grave. A confession too sacred for breath.

Then, one note.

Low.

Trembling.

It slips out like a secret she'd meant to keep buried with her.

Wednesday’s bow moves with the precision of someone dissecting herself, methodical, cruel. The music is fragile, like it might break if looked at wrong.

Enid moves.

Slow. Honest.

Not like rehearsal, not like performance.

This is not choreography. This is a prayer.

A desperate waltz with the end of something unspeakable.

Her toes find the cracks in the wood. Her hands raise — not in beauty, but surrender.

She twirls.

Not perfectly. Not clean.

Her heel slips once, a stumble she doesn’t hide.

This dance isn’t for applause. It’s an answer — to the cello, to the silence, to Wednesday’s eyes swallowing her whole.

The music climbs her ribs like grief learning how to sing.

Wednesday doesn’t stop playing.

Her expression never changes.

But the air thickens.

Her gaze darkens.

There’s something molten in it now — something ancient, something terrified. She watches Enid like she’s watching the end of a star.

Enid knows.

About the visions.

About the death.

About the slow way Wednesday has been disappearing — not in body, but in silence.

Pulling away like a wave preparing to drown.

So she dances.

Until the soles of her feet ache. Until her chest hiccups. Until there’s nothing left in her but breath and orbit and want.

The last note rings out — not like a goodbye, but like a question.

It doesn’t end. It just disappears.

Enid stills mid-turn. The fabric of her skirt settles like wings folding in. Her hair sticks to her neck. Her lungs beg.

Wednesday looks up. Her bow stills midair.

She doesn’t speak. But her face — pale and sharp and flooded with unshed language — says everything.

This is not goodbye. But it is the end of something.

There are no kisses.

No promises.

Just the echo of a dance that tried to hold back time.

Enid steps forward. One last time.

Not to touch. Just to be near.

To witness her.

To be witnessed back.

Their eyes meet — and for a moment, time fractures.

The visions vanish.

The omens blur.

There is only this: moonlight, music, and mourning.

Wednesday blinks once.

A vow.

A tragedy.

A maybe.

Enid pauses, hand trembling as she reaches for Wednesday’s — holding the bow.

“What happens after?”

“After what?”

Enid swallows, voice soft and broken.

“After me."