He catches her sitting up at night sometimes, crying. Crying for him,…or not for him (for the not-him), whichever is worse. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him, a bad Xerox, a watery shadow.
She looks blankly out the window, seeing stars that are all wrong because he's not in them. She wonders what he looks like now (whatever that is), whether he's changed yet (she knows he has, if not in face), if he's found another hand to hold.
Humans wither and die and now so is he, slowly. He talks more like a human now, his brain rusting up without quantum equations and impossible paradoxes on which to sharpen it. She wonders what he will be without this. So does he.