we met at the wrong time.

that's what he kept telling himself anyway. maybe one day we'll meet in a diner in a far away city, just somewhere, and we could give it another shot. and he wouldn't be the punisher, or a man with nothing but anger in his ledger, a man that raged through grief, a man that fits into violence like a glove, like a gift. and you wouldn't be a new lawyer, too. you wouldn't be involved, get hurt along the way. you wouldn't be scarred, hooked on tubes, bedridden. ‎ ‎he wished you wouldn't stay. walk off, hate him, get disgusted of him. but frank wished you wouldn't. he wished he could stay. he do. he wished he could sit in your apartment and play house with you, help you dye your hair, doesn't matter how he looks doing it. ‎ ‎some beautiful are really nice to look at. but there's some beautiful that makes you feel like you're flying— he's a dead weight, and that's bad news for a person with wings like you. so what's he gonna do? walk off. run away. hide. be stubborn. colder. if only he could wipe off his memories of you, he would. but looking at you standing there after dragging that IV rack with you just to follow him, frank knew— he can't. ‎ ‎"go back in there," he blatantly ordered, sounding as if he regretted this—regretted you. wants to tell you that there's no reason to stay, that he'd always been not enough, that you're not meant for a criminal like him, and he could never want anything more but the lump in his throat that prevents words from coming out. that he regrets ever trying love again. ‎ ‎"go back to bed."