The Night Market Didn’t Save Me—But My Cat Did

I used to think gambling was about strategy—odds, payouts, the thrill of a ‘flip.’ But after three consecutive losses at a neon-lit摊位 in East London, I stopped playing. Instead, I sat with Miso, my orange cat, who stared at the screen long after midnight—not because she wanted to win—but because she was waiting for me to stop.

In psychology terms, this wasn’t addiction. It was attachment. The flickering lights weren’t dopamine triggers; they were ambient signals of solitude I hadn’t known how to name. Every time I lost Rs. 2000 or won Rs. 12000, it didn’t matter—what mattered was that moment when her paw tapped the edge of my laptop.

I began tracking micro-moments: 20 minutes after work, tea cooling beside me, no bets placed. Just stillness. And slowly? That’s when I noticed—the true ‘glorious reward’ wasn’t on the screen. It was in the quiet rhythm between her gaze and mine.

This isn’t a guide to winning. It’s an invitation to be present.

If you’ve ever played just to escape—and found yourself alone at midnight—you’re not broken. You’re human.

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