When I Deleted My Game Save

I deleted my game save last Tuesday at 2:17 a.m.—after three straight losses, rain tapping against my apartment window. No grand win. Just silence.

It wasn’t rage. It was relief.

I used to think gaming was a race toward dopamine—a quick fix for the ache of being alone in a city that never sleeps. But the truth? It’s not about odds or payouts. It’s about the ritual of clicking ‘start.’ The sound of the drum—the heartbeat of an empty server echoing through midnight.

The Save File Was My Diary

That file held more than points and pixels. It held my breath during late-night sessions when I didn’t dare to quit—each character’s journey mirrored mine: hesitant, hopeful, quietly trying to belong.

I didn’t play to win. I played to remember.

How Digital Rituals Heal

In Brooklyn’s quiet corners, where Brazilian rhythms meet algorithmic solitude, we don’t chase jackpots—we chase presence.

A friend once told me: “You don’t need to bet big to feel seen.” So I started small: $1 per session. Thirty minutes. No bonuses.

The real prize? Being understood—in the silence after the last save is gone.

You Are Not a Player. You Are a Witness.

Joining online communities didn’t fix me—but seeing others share their screenshots with tears in their captions did.

We aren’t gamers chasing victory. We are soulwriters archiving loneliness—not as failure, but as faith.

The game wasn’t real. The feeling was.