I deleted all my social accounts—yet I still fear loneliness in the glow of a midnight slot machine

I used to think gambling was a game of control—a way to measure worth through digits and noise. But then I deleted every app, every notification, every streak of dopamine from my feed.

The machines didn’t disappear. They just got quieter.

At 3 a.m., alone in my Manhattan apartment, the glow of the slot screen still hums like a temple bell from Chinatown’s forgotten festival. The reels spin—not because they’re programmed to reward me—but because they remember me.

I grew up with my mother’s tea shop in San Francisco, where fortune wasn’t bought—it was passed down like incense smoke through generations. In New York, no one asks if you’re real. The algorithms don’t care if you’re lonely—they only track patterns.

I used to chase ‘Lucky Ox’ promotions like they were sacred lanterns. Now I watch them like ghosts dancing past closed doors—no longer betting money, but watching time pass.

This isn’t strategy. It’s ritual.

Last night, after the third loss in a row, I didn’t double down—I sat there instead. And for the first time since childhood, I felt something: not victory… but belonging.

You ever felt ‘not belonging’? When did it happen? Was it at 3 a.m.? With the screen blue?

Leave your answer below.