To the last hundred days (old revived post)

I wrote this in August 2019. Had it saved and never finished it. And I'm not going to finish it, I'm going to just hit publish. Because unfinished is sometimes how I feel.

A lot can happen in a hundred days. 

I could get married. 

I could uproot my whole existence and decide to start it in a brand new state 800 miles away, with a brand new being.

I could become a person who starts drifting to sleep at 11pm, when at one point I was a night owl.

But.

I couldn't tell you why I blast my music while driving home from the hospital, and listen to Cornelia street and remember H. 

I couldn't tell you because I don't know. It's not like I miss him. There was no "him". There was the figment of him, the belief that he was someone good and pure, when in reality he was just like all the others. I feel nothing. I just like the nostalgic feeling of heartbreak sometimes. Maybe to remember what I've lost? Or simply to relish in how far I've come.
I wish I could cook. I feel so guilty coming home every night with food from the hospital for me and the husband, knowing that I've gained 10 pounds and it's not due to the wedding, it's due to gross hospital food. Plus at one point you tend to start thinking about where your food comes from. And you just want to make your own. Simple. We have an Instant Pot. I found a blog with desi Instant Pot recipes. I will make some.
Everything I've worked for is finally here, and I'm finally living it. And I don't mind waking up at 4 in the morning, or coming back at times when the sky is dark, meaning I never saw the light that day. The hours pass by so fast, it's unreal and amazing at the same time. I just wish there were more hours in the day so I wouldn't have to plan my days off like a military schedule.
The husband. Known him for nearly three years. Living with him is a whole new ball game. It's taking its time. It's learning, and unlearning, and relearning. It's all new.