follow me pls

Meera typed the caption with trembling fingers, her grandmother's poetry collection beside her laptop. Years abroad had diluted her Tamil, but her words still carried that ancient longing. The algorithm was unforgiving, yet here she was, monetizing verses about monsoons and mothers. Each follow felt like a small rebellion against forgetting. Her comments section bloomed with others like her—scattered diaspora children discovering heritage through screens. They teased her perfectionism, burned through her metaphors, thirsted for more. Finally, connection. Finally, income. Finally, her ancestors' words worth something in this world.