<em>“What is love?” I whispered, my question barely rising above the dull hum of the heater. I could feel the chilly air nipping at my exposed toes. He'd turned on the heating but didn't close the window. </em>
He sighed. “That’s a short question with a long answer.”
I was 13 when I first thought about killing myself.
I know it was that age only because I remember a specific detail that couldn’t have occurred when I got any older. After my sister, Lisa, moved to college when I was 14, I left the bedroom at the back of our third-floor 3-bedroom apartment, overlooking the fence, and into the larger bedroom that used to be hers.
“I don’t feel like anyone could understand me without knowing more about me than most people do,” I texted. “I usually do not have the time to explain the about-150 years of geopolitical and sociocultural history of the U.S., Europe and Asia and how that impacts me.”