He says that he still loves her because it makes sense.

It makes sense to still be longing for Stacey, to be the pining, pill-popping, cripple ex-boyfriend. It makes sense to wish that they still lived together, that they were still together. It makes sense to hate her husband because she married him.

But it doesn't make sense to him.

He doesn't spend time thinking about her, how she was an awful cook, how her patience allowed her to play Monopoly for hours. He doesn't remember how she would sink to her knees the moment he stepped-or, rather, limped-inside, what her tongue felt on his cock, how she liked to fuck. He doesn't think about those five years. Anymore.

It occurs to him that she was there to fill a void.

He hadn't wanted to come home to an empty house and his right hand. Even though their first date had been a disaster, and he was sure that there was no chance, she had moved in a week later. She had been a friend - friendly, caring, and eager to combat with sarcastic remarks. Then the damn muscle death, and he didn't trust her anymore.

He wonders where this leaves him.

He has his work, with perplexing cases and annoying patients that are only there because they don't want to do their job or go to school. He is his work, almost. He is defined by his job, defined by approach to sick patients. Everyone knows who he is, because he's the doctor without a white coat and a working leg. Nobody questions that.

He is alone, by himself inside his job with his pills and his cane.