Salt air and neon

The ceiling fan turns with a lazy, grinding patience, pushing hot air around without ever cooling it. You lie on a mattress that is still wrapped in plastic, staring at a water stain shaped like a running dog, and listen to the soi below: bass thumping from three bars, a scooter horn, a vendor's bell, laughter in three languages you don't fully speak. Your flat costs almost nothing because of what it sits beside, and by nine at night the whole street has made that fact unmistakable.

Your phone says four missed calls from Mum, one from Dad, thirty-one unread messages. The last message from your best friend, sent before the flight, still glows in the thread: *you'll love it, trust me*. You have nine thousand baht left, a year on this lease, and a CV that nobody in Pattaya has asked to see.

Downstairs, a smell of lemongrass and charcoal drifts up the stairwell — the noodle cart you can see from your window is lit up, and the woman running it glanced up at you this morning like she was taking inventory. Somewhere out there, a city that never sleeps is deciding what to make of you. You could decide first.