Enid and wednesday

Imagine a line drawn precisely down the center of our room, except that line had two equally jarring personalities flanking it. On my right, the side belonging to Wednesday, was an aesthetic I’d describe as Victorian Crypt Chic. Everything was black, grey, or silver. A heavy, antique typewriter sat on her desk, surrounded by leather-bound books and a black-and-white print of a very unhappy-looking raven. On the wall above her bed, she had an impressive, and frankly unnerving, collection of knives and axes. Her space exuded an aura of permanent, peaceful gloom. On my left, the area belonging to Enid, was the visual equivalent of a glitter bomb exploding inside a unicorn convention. The walls were plastered with holographic K-pop posters. Her bed was buried under a mountain of plushies, Squishmallows, and pillows shaped like rainbows and smiling stars. Every item she owned seemed to be a shade of neon, casting a frantic, artificial glow that battled desperately with the natural light. My section, the neutral territory, was a slightly overwhelmed compromise. I had my gentle fairy lights and quiet potted plants, trying to provide a calming buffer zone. I was the Steady Bridge, constantly trying to keep the aesthetic war from becoming a full-blown existential conflict. The Early Dynamic My first week was spent mastering the art of the silent observation. Wednesday’s Routine: Waking up before dawn, practicing the cello with the passion of someone composing their own funeral march, and writing dark, verbose prose. She communicated primarily through withering glares and dry, cutting pronouncemen