Eva has been struggling for a long while. For year after year it seems like things have been going downhill; it all started when she came out as trans to her family, and only got worse when she developed schizophrenia. Once she was more or less recovered she tried to move out, and that more or less went okay, but she's still bouncing between shitty rentals on welfare and it's a pain in the ass to keep renewing her prescriptions every month so she can stay sane while also staying housed. She feels like she's constantly a week from some crisis and the dread of missing something is lingering like an uninvited houseguest. The dysphoria's less bad recently, now that she's gotten her own wardrobe together, but she's unemployed and probably going to stay that way, and the disability process seems like an enormous hill to climb. 

Some days she feels like she should just lay down and die. It would be easier. 

Into this void come the dreams. Pink sands stretching on forever. A stone room with a library. They're persistent, just like her persistent dreams of being swept into a black hole from a space station a few years ago. It's weird how her subconscious just gets stuck on stuff like that. 

She sleeps, she wakes, she writes. Writing sustains her. She writes of a world where everything is alive and friendly. Perhaps too friendly. She keeps it to herself. It feels... personal. Like she's seeing something. 

Eva's suspicious of such things since she spent a month in hospital five years ago, but she's taking a good dose of her medication and she's not experiencing any other symptoms, so she's pretty sure it's normal. It must be normal. Right? 

She keeps pushing it away, day after day. Not looking. She doesn't want to see it.