The plastic of the pen feels slick and cheap between my fingers, a disposable tool for an indelible choice. It’s hovering over a box, a tiny square on a sea of white paper that smells faintly of industrial printers and quiet desperation. The form is for a new brokerage account, something responsible and forward-thinking. Something grown-ups do. But the questions feel less like finance and more like philosophy, or perhaps interrogation. ‘Are you a Politically Exposed Person (PEP)?’ I am not. That’s easy. I’m a person who spent an entire afternoon last July untangling Christmas lights because the knot offended my sense of order. That is the opposite of political exposure. But the next one stops the pen cold. ‘Are you a tax resident of any country other than your current one?’
Well, am I? The question seems simple, but my life isn’t. I left my home country 7 years ago. I have a new passport, a new address, a new favorite coffee shop. My life is *here*. But did I tell the right people I had left? The *official* people? The ones who don’t know about my new life but still hold the keys to the old one? The truth is, I’m not entirely sure. And in that moment of hesitation, the entire architecture of my expatriate existence feels like a









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