the tortured poets department

✧.* ༉‧₊˚

Somebody finds me in the state I am,

Love you like I mean it when I know I can’t

—

The New York sun is barely above the horizon, the cool winter air having a sharp sting to exposed skin as city lights slowly begin to glow.

The familiarity of the coffee shop is both comforting and terrifying, the yellowish tint of the lights illuminating the blood pooling on the dark floor still lingering in the back of Karen’s mind. 

Since everything went down, the place has gotten a new look; shinier floors and freshly painted walls, the rest of the ambiance seemingly the same. Same aroma of black coffee, same menu, same person.

Frank is sitting at a booth in the back of the small diner, his presence identical to what it was a year ago when they first met here. Karen can’t help but do a double take to his face; untouched and shaven by the looks of it, his hair longer now and slightly pushed back.

“Hey, Frank,” Karen says quietly, making her way towards the booth he’s sitting at.

“Karen,” He echoes back, his eyes flickering from her face down to the rest of her body to take in the state of her.

She immediately notices the cup of black coffee by his side, small amounts of steam wafting off of it as the sun begins to peek through the window. 

“I notice you ordered your coffee already, you practically live off of that stuff.”

Frank chuckles softly, reaching his hand out to grasp the cup and take a sip just to prove his point - “How else am I supposed to get through beating up a bunch of lunatics and then doing it all over again without a little gasoline in the tank?”

“By that definition you’re practically a lunatic yourself, Frank,” Karen replies, slightly smiling. “How have you been?”

Frank looks down at his cup, clearing his throat before responding.

“Fine. Better now that I know you’re okay. You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m also better now that I know you haven't gotten yourself killed.”

Before they can continue, the waitress comes over to the table and asks them for their orders, Karen smiling when Frank's request for more coffee makes the waitress roll her eyes sarcastically.

The absence of the waitresses' presence leaves them quiet, just basking in each other’s company.

“I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you,” Frank says, his voice low as he glances at Karen. “I just thought you should know.”

Karen falls silent, holding eye contact with Frank, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. 

The noise of the kitchen and other people eating in the diner fade away, leaving just the sound of their breaths.

“Frank,” Karen whispers, “Then why can’t you live?”

“I can’t live because they don’t get to live, how can I deserve to enjoy something I ruined for them?”

“But you didn’t ruin it, Frank. We don’t know everything about who did it yet, but you deserve to keep on living your life. Wouldn’t they want that for you?”

Frank falls silent, turning away from Karen’s yearning gaze to stare at the cluttered skyline.

“We can’t be this, Karen. I won’t love you when I know I can’t.”

“But how am I supposed to just move on?”

Karen finally looks down, instantly regretting the words that came out of her mouth. Before she can begin to give into her inner turmoil, she feels Frank’s hand cup her face, the gesture heartbreaking yet gentle, rough but just soft enough to get Karen to look back up.

“Frank.”

“You don’t have to say anything. You can leave, you can stay, all I know is I know you, Karen.”

“Then love me.”

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