grace

The first time Will called you his friend, you laughed, the second time, it irritated you, by the twenty somethingth time, it made you want to throw something.

Which was unfortunate because you were currently standing in his bedroom holding a stack of your own clothes; your clothes, inside his dresser, inside his apartment. Inside the bedroom you practically lived in.

"What?" Will glanced up from where he was tying his shoes, the confusion on his face was genuine, maybe that made it worse.

You held up one of your shirts, "So we're still doing this?" You ask, your words make his eyebrows pull together, "Doing what?"

A bitter laugh escaped before you could stop it, of course he didn't know what you meant; because for months, you'd been having two completely different relationships. The one you were living, and the one he was describing.

You stare at him, "You cleared out a drawer for me." Will shrugged like that was a normal thing people did for casual hookups.

"You stay over so often, I figured I might." He says. You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, but it never came. He genuinely didn't hear himself.

You blink, genuinely unable to believe he really thinks that it was casual to do that, "You gave me your apartment code." You point out. Another shrug before he says, "You were always waiting outside."

You don't let up, immediately continuing to point out just how insane he sounds, "You took me to your parents' house." He doesn't seem to hear how stupid his next defense is, "My mom wanted to meet you." The argument would've been funny if it wasn't ruining your life.

Every answer sounded reasonable on its own, that was the problem. Individually, none of it meant anything; together it looked a hell of a lot like a relationship. A fact everyone seemed aware of except him.

"You know your sister calls me when she wants advice?" Will blinked, staring at you like you just told him the sky was blue, "Yeah. I mean, she likes you."

The words landed like fresh wood on an already thriving fire. "That is exactly what I'm talking about, Will." You snap. For the first time all morning, something shifted in his expression; confusion, as if he genuinely couldn't understand why you were upset.

He shakes his head, "You knew what this was." There it was, the words you'd been dreading, the sentence that somehow hurt every single time.

Months of memories suddenly flashed through your head; his mom hugging you goodbye, his teammates asking if you'd be at games, the nights spent curled up beside him on the couch, the inside jokes, the routines.

The way he'd reach for you automatically, the way he'd text you first, the way he'd look for you in crowded rooms, the way he'd built a place for you in every corner of his life. Apparently none of it meant anything, because technically, he'd warned you.

He'd never called you his girlfriend, he'd never promised anything. And maybe that was the part that made you hate yourself, because he'd been honest. You were the idiot who kept hoping his actions would eventually catch up to his words.

"You know what?" you said quietly. Will immediately looked wary, the fight had finally reached him, way too late. You shook your head, "No, I actually don't know what this is anymore."

The room felt smaller than it had five minutes ago, the air heavier. You laughed once, humorless, exhausted, "Your family knows me." Silence. You keep going, "You keep food in your apartment that you don't even eat because I like it."

Will looked away, that hurt too, he couldn't even look at you? "You call me when you're upset." Nothing, the silence only makes your heart ache worse, "You call me when you're happy, you call me for everything."

The anger that had been building for months finally cracked open, "And somehow I'm still supposed to believe this means nothing?"

Will rubbed a hand over his face; frustration finally appearing. Not sadness, or regret. Frustration, as if this entire conversation was exhausting him, "I never said it meant nothing."

You almost laughed again, "Then what does it mean?" The question hung between you. For the first time since you'd met him, Will had absolutely nothing to say; not because he didn't know, but because he did. He just didn't want to say it. And suddenly that hurt more than any rejection could've. Because if he didn't care, this would've been easy, instead, he stood there silently while the truth sat between both of you.

He wanted everything a relationship offered; the companionship, the affection, the comfort, the consistency. You. He just didn't want the responsibility of actually calling it one.

The realization settled heavily in your chest; months wasted, maybe longer. You swallowed hard, then nodded once, like you were finally understanding something, "Okay."

Will looked up immediately suspicious, "What does that mean?" You don't respond, you just immediately start to move. You crossed the room, grabbed your overnight bag, and started opening drawers.

His face changed, finally, just a small crack, enough to make him question you, "What are you doing?"

You folded a sweatshirt, didn't look at him, "Making things casual." The silence that followed was deafening. For the first time all morning, Will looked nervous. As piece by piece, you started removing yourself from the apartment.

Your shampoo from the bathroom, your charger from the outlet, your clothes from the dresser; your presence from the life he'd built around you. The life he'd insisted wasn't real.

You hear him sigh, before finally, "You're being dramatic." The words stopped you cold, and for a second, neither of you moved.

Then you laughed; a short, disbelieving sound, because of course that's what he'd say. You turned toward him, bag hanging from your shoulder, "Dramatic?"

Will immediately looked like he regretted it; too late, always too late. You nodded toward the half empty dresser, "The good news is you'll have all this extra space now."

Something flashed across his face; panic, maybe, you couldn't tell, you didn't stay long enough to find out.

Because the cruelest part wasn't that Will didn't care, it was that he cared just enough to make leaving hurt, and not enough to ask you to stay. So you walked out, and for the first time since meeting him, he let you.

The door closed behind you, neither of you said goodbye, neither of you called afterward.

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.