The crows squawk as the blue-white light of morning pierces through the cracks in the curtains. I squint sleepily at the light, wondering why I was so insistent on buying curtains with scalloped edges for the baby’s room. The windows are too wide for this type of artsy decor; the contoured borders of the fabric don’t line up with one another, and the light is, as always, brash and unforgiving. The baby fidgets against my breast, drinking only for a few seconds and then pulling away. I try to readjust her. I know she’s hungry. She desperately searches for her next gulp, latches on, and repeats the process again. I bow over her small body, vowing to only shut my eyes for a few moments as she continues to restlessly feed. I am awake, I tell myself. I am awake, I am awake, I am awake.
            The nursery is quiet but not soundless. A white-noise machine shushes monotonously in the corner of the room. The baby’s measured breaths float softly into the still air and dissipate, swallowed by the whirring of the ceiling fan. Behind the door, the cat’s water fountain bubbles irregularly – the water must be running low. The baby’s father is asleep in another room, the bedroom we haven’t shared in several months. He waits patiently for my return to our marital bed, but I’ve been taking my time. I prefer this arrangement: she wakes up, I feed her, we both go back to sleep. It’s just us awake now, me and the baby. It must be three or four in the morning. I’m not wearing my glasses so I can’t read the clock on the wall. The whole room is a blur, everything but the baby under my nose.
            My eyelids are heavy. They shut, but I’m not asleep. I feel the baby in my arms. The weight of her body grounds me to this realm. She pulls and my eyes snap open. She latches back on the nipple and they shut. I am awake, I am awake, I am awake. Another yank. Ow! I look down and now her whole face is turned away from my breast. Maybe she’s finally sated, but I doubt it. I want that belly full so I can get a few more hours of sleep. I look in the direction of her gaze, not expecting to see anything. It is still mostly dark but maybe she’s distracted by the reflection of a few stray beams of light on the framed photos on the wall. She’s still at that age when any high contrast image can provide extended, uninterrupted entertainment. But no, where she stares there is only wall, no photos, no light. It is only a wall, I think. It is something like a wall. I am awake, I am awake. The wall is a wall but maybe not so much a wall. The baby doesn’t look away. Perhaps she sees what I see. Perhaps it is a wall, but the low light plays tricks on our eyes – hers, not fully developed, mine, oblong and tired, both our visions distorted. What should be one solid thing looks like many. The blackness of the room is pixelated into greys and deep blues. The wall that is normally a creamy off-white in the daylight is now a little bit of slate, and gunmetal, and charcoal, and stone. The colors move in and out of space like static on an old analog television.
            The baby won’t break her gaze. I look away only for a moment to see her, still transfixed by the wall that isn’t quite wall. Exhaustion continues to weigh heavily on my stooped shoulders and drowsy eyes. I am awake, I am awake. Something is not right in this room. The soundless sounds continue on. They seem louder now, but it is still quiet. I am uneasy, but my baby is calm. She rests comfortably in my arms and continues to stare. I wonder if this is what she always sees. I wonder if I am halfway between her reality and my own. I am so tired.
The room buzzes with color and my mind reels. The baby is small, young, pure, untouched by darkness. She hasn’t felt the insidious grasp of social media on her mind and her soul. She’s never doubted her self-worth or questioned her purpose. She’s never cried over lost friends or boyfriends. She doesn’t know loss, grief, or fear. My body tenses around hers because I know all of these things. I am awake. I feel the early seeds of panic begin to take root deep in my gut. I am so tired. Where am I? I am in the nursery. The wall is just a wall but it swirls in front of us like a portal to another world. I think of throwing something at it, but I must stay in place and protect my child. The baby coos and smiles. I want to scream. I am not asleep, but I am not awake. The air in the nursery is uncanny. The hissing and purring and gurgling crescendos. I am paralyzed by fear.
            The baby rubs her eyes as the room begins to brighten. I do not know what time it is. My vision is still blurred. I close my eyes. I am asleep.
            My eyes open to white walls. The baby is cooing contentedly in the bassinet. I lay snuggly in the daybed beside her and can hear my husband moving around outside the nursery. The room is gradually filled with the familiarities of morning: the sound of cats begging for breakfast, the aroma of freshly ground coffee, the unsullied novelty and warmth of a new day. I look over at my daughter and she smiles brightly, the way she does when she’s had a good night’s sleep. I smile back at her. Her keen eyes communicate that she is ready to start her day. I pick her up and hold her tightly to my chest. I am still so tired, but I am awake.

Sarah Dawson-Moroz is a new mom, about to begin surgery residency. Standing on the precipice of a demanding career in medicine, she explores common themes between the human body and humanity in her writing.