macklin celebrini x reader
TREATMENT PLAN : maybe if he gave you a reason to hate him, then watching him walk away wouldn't hurt as much
CLINICAL NOTES : i think i did too much tbh, this is the only time im writing smth that isnt a smau for a while cause bro-
DIAGNOSIS LOG : you seem pretty sad
The curb at the airport is cold beneath you, even through your sweats. You can feel the rumble of engines, the endless churn of arrivals and departures. Macklin's standing in front of you with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his eyes are red-rimmed but dry. He's always been better at holding it together.
You were crying again, and you can see the way it's breaking him... The way his jaw tightens, the way he looks away and then back, like he can't decide if watching will make it better or worse
“I can't stand to watch you cry,” Mack says quietly, and there's something in his voice that sounds like surrender. "Not for another minute."
So he does the noble thing... He opens up the door—metaphorically, in every way that matters. He's letting you go. Wishing you the best. Telling you with his eyes, his trembling hands, and the set of his shoulders that this is what love looks like sometimes; walking away.
And all you can think, sitting here on this curb with tears streaming down your face, is
“I wish you loved me less.”
You remember the edge of the bed.
Not the good times, not the mornings you'd wake up tangled in eachother's limbs, or the nights you'd fall asleep mid-conversation, Mack's voice trailing off into soft snores. No, you remember the other times. The recent times.
Lying there in the dark, your body and head protesting the very act of being still. Your stomach's in knots—literally, physically twisted up inside you and you don't wanna talk.
"Hey," he'd whisper behind you, and you'd feel his hand on your shoulder. Gentle. Always so gentle. "You okay, baby?"
"Yeah," you'd lie. "Let's just go to bed or something."
Maybe it'll fix itself tomorrow.
That became your mantra. Your desperate, whispered hope in the darkness. Maybe tomorrow you'd wake up and whatever this was—this distance, this disconnect, this slow unraveling... would be gone. Maybe tomorrow you'd look at Mack and feel what you used to feel. Maybe tomorrow the knot in your stomach would unravel itself.
But you've been saying that like every night. And every morning, it's always still there.
He made you laugh once. God, who were you kidding? he made you laugh all the time.
That was the thing about Macklin and his stupid smile that could light up an entire arena. He was happy—genuinely, effortlessly happy. The kind of person who giggled at his own jokes, who found joy in the smallest things, who made the world feel lighter just by existing in it.
You remember one of your first dates, the way he'd told some ridiculous story about his teammates and dissolved into laughter halfway through, unable to finish because he was giggling too hard and you'd laughed too, not even at the story but at him, at the way his cheeks would turn pink when he's happy, at the sound of that laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest.
Being around Mack was easy. That's what you'd told your friends, your family, anyone who asked. "He's just... easy to be around."
And he was. Until he wasn't...right? or maybe he still was, but you weren't anymore. You're not quite sure which is worse.
Big Sur was supposed to help.
"Let's recreate our favorite date," Mack had said, and there was something almost desperate in his enthusiasm. Like if he could just get the setting right, the script right, the feeling right, everything else would fall into place.
You wanted to believe him. So you agreed.
Same route. Same stops. Same little overlook where you'd pulled over the first time and just stared at the ocean, his hand in yours, the future stretching out before you like that endless blue horizon.
But you didn't laugh much this time.
You tried. Mack tried. He told the same kinds of jokes, made the same kinds of observations, even ordered the same food at the same restaurant. But something was missing. The spark, the connection, the ease; it was all just... gone as if they vanished without a notice.
You sat across from him at dinner, watching him try so hard to make this work, and all you could think was
This isn't what it should feel like.
Love shouldn't be this much work. It shouldn't require this much effort, this much forcing, this much pretending. It should feel like it used to—natural, effortless, right.
The drive home was quiet. Not the comfortable silence you used to share, but the heavy kind. The kind weighted with everything you're both thinking but not saying.
Your trip to Big Sur only confirmed what you'd both been avoiding, something fundamental had shifted, and no amount of recreating the past could bring it back.
Maybe you're an overthinker. That's what you tell yourself sometimes, lying awake at the edge of the bed, your back to Mack, your mind racing through every conversation, every moment, every tiny detail that might explain how you got here.
You could try convincing him they're just intrusive thoughts... these doubts, these fears, this persistent feeling that something's wrong. You could tell Macklin it's all in your head, that you're overthinking it, that if you both just push through it'll get better.
But he's seen you truly happy. Mack knows what that looks like, the way your eyes light up, the way you laugh without holding back, the way you lean into him instead of away. And he knows, right now, you're not.
You can see it in the way he looks at you. Like he's searching for the person you used to be, the person who fit so perfectly against him, the person who made sense in his life. And you're searching too, trying to find your way back to her, but she feels further away every day.
"I've been thinking," Macklin says one night, and your stomach drops because you know. You know from his tone, from the careful way he's choosing his words, from the fact that he's starting a sentence he doesn't want to finish.
"About us," he continues. "About... this."
Your body and head protest. You don't want to have this conversation. You want to pull the covers over your head and disappear, want to rewind time to when things were simple, want to fix this without having to acknowledge it's broken.
But you can't. So you turn over, face him in the darkness, and wait.
"We can't do this anymore," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "I can't watch you be this unhappy. I can't-" He stopped, swallowed hard, tried again. "You deserve better than this—better than what i-"
"It's not you," you cut him off, and you meant it. That was the cruelest part. It wasn't him. He was still the same person, kind, loving, easy to be around. The same person who made you laugh until your sides hurt, who remembered how you took your coffee, who texted you pictures of dogs he saw on away games.
But somewhere along the way, you'd stopped fitting together. The edges that used to align so perfectly had shifted, and no matter how hard you both tried to force it, the pieces didn't match anymore.
"I love you," he said, and it sounded more like an apology instead of a statement.
"I know," you whispered. "I love you too."
And that was the problem, wasn't it? You still loved each other. But love wasn't enough. Love couldn't bridge the gap that had opened between you, couldn't fill the silence, couldn't make you laugh the way you used to.
He reached across the table, took your hand in his. His palm was warm, familiar. You memorized the feeling—the calluses on his fingers, the way his thumb brushed across your knuckles.
"I want you to be happy," he said again. "Even if it's not with me.”
You wanted to tell him that you didn't know how to be happy without him... that the thought of waking up tomorrow and not hearing his voice, not seeing his smile, not feeling his arms around you made you want to crawl out of your own skin.
But you didn't say any of that. Because he was right; and you both knew it.
That's what Mack was saying. That's what love means to him right now—opening up the door and stepping aside, even though it's killing him.
If loving you means letting go and wishing you the best, then—
"I'm sorry," you whisper, because what else is there to say?
At the airport, everything feels surreal. Like you're watching yourself from outside your body, going through the motions of goodbye.
Macklin hugs you, and you memorize the feeling—his arms around you, his heartbeat against your cheek, the smell of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him. You try to hold on, to make this moment last, but he's already pulling away.
"I wish you the best," he says, and you know he means it. That was the worst part—that he wasn't just your boyfriend but also your bestfriend. Mack genuinely wants you to be happy, even if it's not with him. Even if it means walking away from everything you built together.
You watch him pick up his bag, watch him give you one last smile—small and sad and so achingly real. Watch him turn toward the terminal, toward his flight, toward a future that doesn't include you.
And then... you're alone.
You sink down onto the curb, your legs giving out, and the tears come in waves. You're crying on the curb at the airport, surrounded by strangers and suitcases and the constant motion of people coming and going...
You wish he loved you less.
Because if he loved you less, he wouldn't have tried so hard, wouldn't have suggested Big Sur, wouldn't have held you through those sleepless nights at the edge of the bed, wouldn't have cried when he told you this is the end.
If he loved you less, he would've given up sooner, would've gotten angry, would've blamed you, would've made this easier by being someone you could hate.
But he's not. He's still that boy who giggles at his own jokes, who makes everything feel lighter, who loves you enough to let you go. And that generous, selfless, devastating love is what makes this unbearable.
You've been thinking over this a lot, and you keep coming back to the same conclusion: Loving you meant wishing you the best. Loving you meant opening up the door. Loving you meant saying goodbye, even though every fiber of his being wanted to stay.
And you love him enough to let him walk away.
So you sat there, you let the grief wash over you in waves, let the tears fall without trying to stop them.
You think about all those nights lying at the edge of the bed, telling yourself maybe it'll fix itself tomorrow. You think about the date, about how you didn't laugh much, about how you both knew but didn't want to say it. You think about the way Macklin looked at you when he said he couldn't stand to watch you cry anymore, the way he did the noble thing even though it destroyed him.
“I wish, I wish, I wish you loved me less.”
Because if loving you means letting go, wishing you the best, and watching you cry on the curb while he walks away—then he wishes he loved you less.
And maybe that's the most painful kind of love there is... the kind that's strong enough to break itself apart. The kind that says "this is the end" not because the love is gone, but because the love is still there, still real, still powerful enough to want what's best even when what's best means goodbye.
You sit on that curb until your tears run dry, until the sky starts to darken, until the cold seeps into your bones. And when you finally stand up, finally walk away, you carry that wish with you:
“I wish you loved me less.”
Because then, maybe, it wouldn't hurt so much.
And somewhere, on a plane heading back to San Jose, you know he's thinking the same thing—wishing he could love you less, wishing this was easier, wishing goodbye didn't feel like tearing himself in half.
Two people who love each other, who tried so hard, who did everything right except for the one thing that mattered: fitting together.
Your stomach's still in knots. Your body and head are still protesting. And you know that tonight, lying at the edge of your bed, alone, you'll think the same thing you've been thinking like every night:
“Maybe it'll fix itself tomorrow.”
But you know it won't. Because some things can't be fixed. Some things just are.
And sometimes, the truth is this: love isn't always enough.
Sometimes, love means letting go.
Sometimes, love means wishing someone the best, even when it breaks you.
wow okay genuinely- way too long, also.. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MACK !
