grace

The worst part about falling in love with your best friend wasn't the waiting, it wasn't the jealousy, it wasn't even watching him become the kind of person everyone gravitated toward without trying.

The worst part was the hope. Because hope was dangerous. Hope convinced you that happiness existed somewhere just beyond your reach. That if one thing changed, just one thing, you'd finally feel okay. And for years, that thing had been Macklin.

It became an easy fantasy. When you were sixteen and crying in your bedroom after a bad day, he'd call unexpectedly, when you were eighteen and convinced nobody actually liked you, he'd spend an entire evening making you laugh until your stomach hurt, when you were twenty and struggling to get out of bed some mornings, he'd text you ridiculous photos from practice and somehow convince you to keep going.

Macklin had become woven into every difficult period of your life; every memory, every comfort, every version of yourself.

Without realizing it, you started building him into something he was never meant to be, not a person, a solution.

And that was where everything went wrong.

You were twenty-two when he kissed you for the first time. Not because either of you had planned it, not because there was some grand confession. It happened on an ordinary night. The kind of night that would've been forgettable if it hadn't changed everything.

You'd been sitting on the floor of his apartment eating takeout and arguing about a movie neither of you were paying attention to.

One moment you were laughing, the next moment neither of you were. You still remembered the look on his face. The hesitation, the hope, the fear. As if he'd wanted this for a long time but wasn't sure he was allowed to.

The kiss itself wasn't dramatic, it was soft, tentative, and careful. And somehow that made it worse; because it felt real. Painfully so.

For a while, everything was wonderful. Not perfect, wonderful. There was a difference.

You learned quickly that Macklin was exactly the boyfriend everyone assumed he'd be; tentive, patient, affectionate. The kind of person who remembered tiny details without trying, the kind of person who brought you your favorite coffee because he'd noticed you were having a rough day. The kind of person who listened.

For months, you floated. Not because your problems disappeared, but because you thought they would. You genuinely believed you'd found the missing piece.

The thing you'd been waiting for, the antidote.

Then one Tuesday afternoon, you had a panic attack in a grocery store, and everything cracked.

Nothing even happened, that was the stupid part. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, the aisles felt too crowded.

Your chest tightened, your hands started shaking; suddenly breathing became difficult.

You ended up sitting in Macklin's passenger seat twenty minutes later trying not to cry while he rubbed circles into your back, concern etched across every line of his face.

You hated it.

Not because he was doing anything wrong, because he looked so worried, because he was trying so hard, because even with him sitting right beside you, the panic had happened anyway.

That feeling never left, it followed you everywhere.

Quietly, patiently, waiting.

Every bad day felt like proof of something. Proof that loving Macklin hadn't fixed you, that you were still the same person underneath everything.

The same fears, the same doubts, the same exhausting voice in your head. And the more you noticed it, the worse it became.

You were sitting on his couch one night when he paused mid-conversation, "What?" You blinked, "What?" You mirror his words right back.

Macklin noticed first. His eyebrows pulled together, "You've been somewhere else all night." You immediately smiled, probably too fast, "I'm fine."

The concern didn't leave his face, and somehow that made you feel worse.

After that, he started trying harder. You never asked him to, that was the problem. He just did because he loved you.

When you forgot to eat, he'd bring food, when you struggled to sleep, he'd stay on the phone until you did, when you had a bad day, he'd show up at your apartment, when you spiraled, he'd talk you through it.

Again, and again, and again.

At first, it felt comforting, then it felt suffocating Not because of him, because of what it meant. Every act of kindness became another reminder that he was carrying weight that wasn't his.

Every reassurance felt temporary, every conversation ended the same way. You'd feel better for an hour, maybe a day, then the thoughts returned, and Macklin would have to start over.

One night, you found yourself staring at the ceiling while he slept beside you. Unable to breathe properly, unable to stop thinking, his arm was draped across your waist, his breathing steady. Safe.

You should've felt safe too, instead, tears burned behind your eyes. Because all you could think was: Why isn't this enough? The realization made you feel monstrous.

Months passed, and the distance grew. Not physically, but emotionally; the worst kind.

Macklin kept reaching, you kept pulling away, neither of you knew how to stop it.

The breaking point came in February, when you weren't even fighting; that's what made it hurt.

It was raining outside, you were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, neither of you looking at each other.

The silence had stretched too long, so eventually Macklin broke it. His voice sounded exhausted, not angry, just tired, "What else am I supposed to do?"

The question hung in the room, you looked up slowly,for the first time in months, his frustration wasn't hidden. It wasn't directed at you, it was directed at the situation, at the helplessness, ar watching someone you love hurt.

You let out a quiet breath, "What?" You ask, like you didn't know what he meant. His jaw tightened, "I don't know how to help anymore."

The words hit harder than shouting would've. Because they were honest, completely honest.

You felt tears immediately. Not because he was wrong, but because he wasn't. Macklin leaned forward, forearms on his knees, looking lost, "I don't know what you need from me."

Your chest hurt, your throat hurt, everything hurt. Finally, you whispered, "Nothing."

He froze, the room suddenly felt very quiet, "Nothing?" He repeats, questioningly.

You shook your head, tears falling now, unable to stop them, "That's the problem."

Confusion crossed his face, then realization, then heartbreak. Because suddenly he understood, "You think I'm supposed to fix this."The words barely sounded like your own voice, "I think I spent years believing that if you loved me back, everything would get better."

Macklin looked devastated, you'd never seen him look devastated before. You continue, "And it didn't." The confession shattered something between you, not your love, something worse; the illusion.

"It was never your job." Your voice cracked as you shake your head slightly, Macklin looked away first, as if hearing that physically hurt, maybe it did.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

When he finally looked back, his eyes were red, "So what happens now?" You didn't have an answer.

That was the cruelest part. You still loved him, god, you loved him more than anyone, maybe you always would.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, Macklin was still sitting across from you, still looking at you like you were the most important person in the world. And somehow that made everything hurt more.

Because for the first time, you understood something you'd spent years refusing to admit: Being loved and being healed were not the same thing. And sometimes loving someone wasn't enough to save them. The worst part was that neither of you wanted saving from each other.

But sitting there, looking at him, you realized something terrifying. Love wasn't fixing either of you anymore, it was just hurting.

The rain continued outside, soft against the windows. Neither of you moved, neither of you left.

And somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, you realized there wasn't going to be a clean ending.

No dramatic goodbye, no final speech, no neat resolution, just two people sitting together in the wreckage of something neither of them wanted to lose.

Macklin's voice was barely audible when he finally spoke, "Do you still love me?" The question broke your heart, because he sounded afraid to ask it.

You answered immediately, without hesitation, without doubt, "Yes."

His eyes closed, relief and pain crossing his face at the same time.

The silence that followed stretched endlessly. Neither of you knew what came next. Maybe tomorrow you'd leave, maybe you'd stay, maybe you'd spend weeks trying to figure out how to untangle yourselves from each other, maybe neither of you would succeed.

yourusername: posted 12 hours ago

♫: Venice Bitch - Lana Del Rey

yourusername: la dolce vita 🤍🍋

liked by barzal97, bohorvart, titobeauvi91 matthew.schaefer48 and 89,928 others

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yourusername: posted 6 hours ago

📍Positano, Italy

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liked by barzal97, yourbestfriend, mattymarts17, mgatcomb99 and 90,901 others

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yourusername: posted 1 hour ago

♫: Life Is but a Dream - The Harptones

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liked by barzal97, bohorvart, sydneyemartin, palms21 and 92,820 others

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yourusername: posted 4 hours ago

♫: Dedicated To The One I Love - The Mamas & The Papas

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liked by barzal97, matthew.schaefer48, bohorvart, titobeauvi91 and 99,920 others

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yourusername: posted 8 hours ago

♫: You're Still The One - Shania Twain

yourusername: Luke just refuses to take a cute picture

liked by lukehughes_, yourbestfriend, _quinnhughes, trevorzegras, jesperbratt, nicohischier and 123,628 others

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yourusername: posted 3 hours ago

♫: Cinema - Harry Styles

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liked by lukehughes_, jackhughes, tatemcrae, mackcelebrini and 119,927 others

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yourusername: posted 19 hours ago

♫: Summer Nights - John Travolta, Olivia Newton-John

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liked by lukehughes_, jackhughes, _quinnhughes, colecaufield and 122,739 others

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yourusername: posted 5 hours ago

♫: Super Trouper - ABBA

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liked by lukehughes_, yourbestfriend, trevorzegras, nicohischier and 128,739 others

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