Chapter 1. The Glass Dome

Something inside me pushed outward, and for a moment, I felt like a glass dome. Inside this dome, a bird flutters desperately, hurling itself against the transparent walls, hoping to break free. It doesn’t know that the glass can truly shatter—but it keeps trying. And then, with one final strike of its tiny beak, the dome breaks. I shatter into a thousand tiny fragments. I open my eyes. At first, the world seems unreal—its outlines soft, its movements sluggish. A clock hangs on the wall, yet I can’t hear its ticking. The blinds on the window conceal the time—day or night? Distantly, laughter and music drift into my ears, coming from a laptop lying on the table. I try to focus. It’s a show—I recognize the faces. Familiar. Comforting. But as my senses sharpen, my body sends me signals. I feel a touch. Someone’s arms are wrapped around me. Someone warm, someone big. Lying behind me. I can’t remember who this is. I can’t remember where I am. Is this my home? My bed? My body?

“Oh, you’re awake, love.” The voice is gentle. He rises, sitting at the edge of the bed, gazing at me. Dark hair. A shadow of stubble. Warm eyes—maybe brown? It’s too dim to tell. I struggle to recall his name. How long have I been asleep? Have I been asleep?

“How long…” My own voice startles me. “…was I sleeping?”

“You dozed off when we started watching the show. Maybe three hours?” he answers casually. “It’s probably a side effect of the pills.” Pills? I can’t remember taking any. My head is still spinning. I stare at him, and something warm stirs inside me. He’s familiar. Safe. I can trust him. Maybe I should sleep a little longer. This feels like something I once read about—sleep inertia. Strange, experiencing it firsthand. He pulls a large green blanket over me and presses a kiss to my temple. He smiles. He’s kind. My head aches, my vision blurs—I can’t focus on his face. He lies down behind me again, his arm draping over my stomach. My stomach. Something about it feels… strange. His body against mine feels unfamiliar, and yet—why do I want to cry? I feel his breath against my ear, warm and steady. His stubble grazes my neck as he pulls me closer. My body knows him. My body trusts him. I can feel it. I relax. I fall asleep.

***

Morning starts with two cups of coffee and a cheese sandwich for breakfast. David prepares it quickly, kisses my cheek, and rushes off to work. I load the laundry, start the dishwasher, set the robot vacuum in motion, and settle down to edit my latest photo session. I’ve always loved the idea of working from home—better yet, working for myself. That’s why I became a photographer, and I truly enjoy it. Once, I had bigger ambitions. I dreamed of becoming a writer. But we all grow up, don’t we? We shift our focus to more important things. A few hours later, I get up to do more chores. We share the responsibilities, but when David’s at work, I take charge of the house. My phone alarm chimes—a small reminder to take my pills. Lately, David and I have been trying to conceive, so my doctor prescribed these medications. They make me drowsy all the time. Every day, I imagine the tiny life that might be growing inside me. I press my hand to my stomach, trying to feel it. I want to feel it. I already love it.