Autor's knuckles sting as he clenches the handle of the shears. He didn't intend to fall for Punie. Nor did he intend to trip into Karkat shortly afterwards. Scheisse. The boy has known for a while which one he had to let go.

"There are many plants in a greenhouse," he says carefully. "There was a certain fungus"--resilience, loneliness, solitude, disgust--"that I was interested in, but it could not compete against cherry blossoms."

He glances at her grass bracelet and waits for her to strike him down.