I deleted all my social accounts — yet I feared loneliness more than any game

The midnight screen was my only mirror

At 3 a.m., while the city slept, I sat alone in my Manhattan apartment, the blue glow of my monitor casting soft shadows on the wall. No notifications. No likes. No comments. Just me, the hum of a cooling fan, and the memory of a Chinese tea ceremony my parents kept alive in San Francisco’s tiny corner shop.

I used to think winning meant chasing jackpots—spending Rs. 10 per spin like some desperate kid at a casino table. But after months of silence, I realized: no algorithm could ever fill the hollow inside me like real human touch.

What if joy isn’t earned? It’s chosen.

I stopped playing because I finally understood: luck isn’t divine prophecy—it’s that quiet click before you press ‘spin.’ The machine doesn’t care if you win. It cares if you’re still there when it turns dark.

I began to see every session as ritual—not as consumption. Each hand played became meditation: steam rising from a ceramic cup, light flickering through bamboo blinds.

The sacred rhythm of being alone

Joining ‘Lucky Gong Community’ didn’t mean posting screenshots. It meant reading strangers’ stories—the ones who smiled with tears after losing three rounds and still came back for one more try.

Last lunar New Year, I won Rs. 2,000—not because I gambled well—but because I showed up quietly.

You don’t need to be lucky to be whole. You just need to sit long enough—until your soul remembers what it feels like to be seen.