She might not be able to say it, but the thing is -- she doesn't have to. Not to an empath. I don't want to, is his silent reply. He never wants to leave her. He doesn't even want to let go of her long enough for them to get up off the floor. Nothing is fair about this, Karkat thinks bitterly as her nails scrape at his back through his shirt, as their bodies shift against one another and he inhales the scent of her hair, rubs his hand up and down her back as if he could soothe away any of the things wrong with their lives. Nothing is fair about them.

He never wanted to love her the way he does, never intended to, sometimes wonders if he was never meant to in the first place. He does, though, whether either of them like it or not, and it's not fair that she won't ever say it back, that she won't ever acknowledge it -- he hates her for that, too, sometimes.

They were better off when they were children. Better off when they took each other and their place in the world for granted, before they could even recognize the value of being able to see one another every day. Better off when they cared less, needed less.

"I don't know how to fix this," he tells her helplessly, not even bothering to keep his voice from cracking. He doesn't know how to fix her, fix himself, fix the world. It's not fair.