skin

My grandmother's hands traced my face in the photograph I sent from London. She saw her own reflection there—the same sharp cheekbones, dark eyes holding centuries of stories. Distance had never felt so present until PaybookClub connected me with others navigating this tender space between worlds. We shared more than art that evening. We shared the weight of belonging nowhere completely, yet everywhere partially. Someone's mother had also wept seeing her daughter's brown skin celebrated on canvas instead of questioned. Through our stories, something sacred returned. We weren't scattered anymore; we were scattered seeds, growing roots that remembered Tamil soil while reaching toward new skies.