Jenny loved those first moments after waking up. That hazy feeling of the world solidifying around her, before normal life intruded. She clung to that drowsy half-awake feeling for as long as she could, luxuriating in the peace of the morning. Or afternoon on bad days.

  She’d tried therapy for a while, before it became too much of a financial burden to continue. Her therapist had asked if she had any problem sleeping, and Jenny had confidently replied no, not at all, she could sleep for fourteen, even sixteen hours if she had nothing else going on. She was almost proud of it.

  But that was ruined by the Therapist’s look of shock, “you don’t think that sleeping for fourteen to sixteen hours is a problem?” she’d asked.

  Right. That’s true - most people don’t do that once they’re over the age of two.

  Short-lived therapy aside, Jenny thought she was mostly fine. Apathetic maybe. Isolated for sure. Occasionally struggling with crippling anxiety and bouts of depression, absolutely. But still fine. Ish. Well, functioning at least. She had a job (part time) which paid for her flat (a tiny mess). She spoke to her mum once a week (unavoidable) and texted with some friends from uni (enough to trick them into thinking she was living a normal life).

  The problem was, Jenny felt like she had no reason to not be happy. She was incredibly fortunate and had been raised with love and given every opportunity to succeed. She was clever, talented, physically healthy, and grew up in a comfortable middle-class family. Literally won the lottery of birth circumstances. And yet, despite all that, at 26, Jenny was done.

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  According to her mother, the choices she had made since leaving university were foolish to say the least. Going abroad to teach English was, at best, meant to be a sort of post uni gap year. Four years later, Jenny had found a balance of working enough hours to be able to afford to live, and then added an extra half day as a financial buffer. She considered that a success. Her mother however insisted that she should return home and get a proper job, and a boyfriend, and friends, and group hobbies. An adult life. The mere thought of it made Jenny’s scalp itch.

  In as much as she liked anything, she liked her life, her routine. It was peaceful. Jenny had tried so hard and done so much as a child and teenager that she had run out of fuel. This was what she could manage, so this was what she did. Her flat was a whirlwind of books, plants, both alive and dead, half-finished projects of every kind; drawings, embroidery and origami lay interspersed with sheet music, unopened mail and unmarked homework from the language school. The mess didn’t bother Jenny. The tiny kitchen and bathroom were both clean, and that was what mattered.

  It was what made her realise something had changed when she woke up that morning. Instead of the calming chaos she was accustomed to, Jenny lay in an unnervingly clean, empty, white room.There was no door or any visible windows, and it was brightly lit, despite there being no lights. She was in a single bed that was tucked into one corner of the space, and the sheets were crisp and white.

  Am I in hospital? She thought. What could have happened? She wiggled her toes. I'm not in any pain, everything feels normal and I can’t see any tubes or equipment.

  Jenny heard a soft chime and sat up in the pristine white bed. She pressed her back against the wall and clutched the sheet up to her chin as a glowing white orb materialised in the centre of the room. The chime sounded again, and a soft female voice filled the space.

  “Welcome, Jenny, to The Place Between”