It's 2am. The house is silent. Your bedroom is dark, except for the faint glow of your lamp in the corner. There are noises outside every now and then - foxes, rubbish blowing around, gates swinging - but asides from that, it's just you laying in bed, safe under your covers with a book propped up next to you.
In that moment, time stops. The room around you dissolves.
You read, and read, and read; you don't lift your head. Your mind is somewhere else - the halls of Cimmeria Academy, or beneath the Eiffel Tower, or perhaps the markets of South Korea. You're Allie Sheridan, you're Anna Oliphant, you're Grace Wilde - maybe even Katniss.
You continue to be there until the book is finished and then you put it down by your side and smile to yourself, satisfied. Light blinds you as you lift your phone to check the time.
Hours have passed. Things have happened in the world. People have died, babies have been born, the sun rose in one country and set in another. But you were in a bubble, protected from everything because you were looking at pretty ink shapes on a page. You weren't in this world - you were in another one.
Pictured it? That, there, is one of my favourite places to be.
Where is your bright place?