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

I used to think my identity lived in the feedback loop—the endless scroll, the perfect like, the curated comment.

I was trained to believe that visibility = worth.

Then one night—3 a.m., Manhattan apartment, blue glow of my screen—I closed every tab.

No more notifications. No more algorithms guessing my mood.

Just me, the tea steam rising from my mother’s small shop in San Francisco, and the ghost of subway reflections flickering on wet pavement.

I didn’t delete them because I was tired.

I deleted them because I finally heard myself breathe again.

In this world built by code and commerce, solitude isn’t failure—it’s reclamation.

The Fuxiu Banquet? No. The Lucky Key? Not here.

This isn’t about winning bets—it’s about being allowed to sit quietly, watching your own shadow stretch across glass and steel, as if the city remembered you before it forgot how to love you.

I used to chase trends—until I realized trends were just mirrors for loneliness. Now I watch the rhythm of rain on windows at dawn, as if someone left a hand-drawn sketch behind the terminal— a single brushstroke saying: ‘You are not broken—you’re becoming.’

And maybe that’s enough.