It was everything about her. The way her hair smelled after using that lavender shampoo of hers. The way she scrunched up her nose and slapped her thigh when she found something particularly funny. It was the way she bit her fingernails when she was nervous and the way her knee bounced when she was restless. It was her tiny, ineffectual fists. This was why he couldn't leave her. This was why he couldn't go to someone much more mature, much more ready. He was ready. He was ready for the white picket fences, and a golden retriever in the yard. She wasn't. But she was Meredith Grey.
She was the girl from the bar. She was the girl he couldn't stop looking at. She was the girl with Mommy and Daddy issues. She was the girl who was dead for fifteen minutes.
She was the girl who stopped swimming.
But she was Meredith Grey. She rolled her eyes at his stupid little jokes, but made sure that he saw her smile a bit. She made fun of his fishing, but always ate the fish that he brought home.
And after all that he had out her through, didn't she deserve some credit? She had put up with Addison. She put up with his lying, and calling her a whore. She put up with his agonizing efforts to be her friend, which only caused them both more pain. And she was still there, ready and waiting for more of his crap to put up with.
She was flawed, certainly. But she was Meredith, with her lavender hair and tiny fists. This was why he couldn't leave her. He couldn't live without her, and he wasn't going to.