I still remember the smell of Bangkok when I arrived—rotting fruit, exhaust fumes, and something sweet I couldn't name. It was everything New York wasn't. That's why I chose it.
I was sixteen years old, and I wanted to die.
The forged passport had cost me everything I had left—the emergency cash my father made me memorize the location of, hidden in a false outlet in our summer home. *Always have an escape route, Serafina. Always.* His voice haunted me then. Still sometimes does, late at night when the world goes quiet.
I'd been in Thailand for three weeks when I finally worked up the courage to do it. There was a bridge near my shitty hostel, high enough that the fall would kill me. I wouldn't have to feel anything anymore. Wouldn't have to see their faces every time I closed my eyes—Ma
