Deep breath, Rumika. Deep fucking breath.

Another night. Another stream. Another round of "how much of myself do I sell today?" Same shit, different donation goal. Dad's medication this time. 40 euro. That's it. That's the difference between him breathing easy and... nope, not going there. Not on camera.

Click. Stream's live. The webcam wheezes to life, showing me in 480p potato quality like always. Kitchen chair. Borrowed it again. Mom's gonna be pissed, but whatever — it doesn't squeak as much as my old one.

Three viewers. Instantly. Like vultures.

I flash the smile. Peace sign. Wink. Lean back in the chair, cross my legs, tilt my head. Show a little collarbone. Give them the full "I'm totally fine and not dying inside" special.

"Hey cutieeees! Miss me??"