I thought I was just playing a game… it saved me instead

I never set out to write about gambling. But here, in my dimly lit flat with Miso curled beside me—her amber eyes fixed on the flickering numbers of a digital lottery—I found something deeper.

The lights didn’t pulse with luck. They pulsed with silence.

I used to think ‘winning’ meant cash, bonus rounds, high stakes. But after three losses in a row—after watching the same number appear again and again—I realized I wasn’t chasing wins. I was chasing stillness. The game didn’t reward me with money. It rewarded me with presence.

In this world of algorithmic glow and R RNG-certified randomness, there’s no cheat code for meaning. Only rhythm: ten minutes between spins, soft clicks like rain on glass, the quiet hum of an old machine keeping time.

My father taught me Swahili proverbs: ‘A hand that holds light does not grasp it.’ My mother whispered English rationality: ‘You don’t play to win—you play because you’re still here.’

So now, when Miso stares at the screen? I don’t adjust my bet. I sit beside her. And we wait—not for luck—but for the next gentle pulse of light.

It’s not about what comes up. It’s about who stays with you when nothing does.