You don’t remember walking in. That’s the first thing you notice, or rather, the first thing you realize too late. One moment you were just existing, and the next you were there in a room that never sleeps. It smells faintly of sugar and static, of burned electricity and recycled air. The carpet glows with impossible colors that seem designed to disorient of spiraling red, gold, and orange swallowing one another in endless motion.

The sound comes next. Not loud exactly, but consuming. A low, electric hum that vibrates through the soles of your shoes and climbs the length of your spine. Every few seconds, a burst and a bell, a cheer, then the sharp metallic rattle of coins spilling into metal. Someone wins. Someone always wins!

You find yourself standing in front of a slot machine, chrome-edged and blinding. It flashes its invitation in a thousand shades of neon gold, emerald, scarlet, and blue. You don’t know why you’re drawn to it, only that it feels familiar like a heartbeat you’ve heard your whole life. You rest your hand on the lever. It’s cold, smooth, and waiting.

You pull.

The reels blur into color. The sound grows of a pulse, a rhythm, and a promise. Then, with a sharp ding, the symbols align. Coins tumble and lights flare. You feel something spark in your chest, it’s a warmth that floods your veins before you even understand it. You’ve won.

In that moment, something in you decides that this is how it feels to be safe.

It starts innocently as you pull again. The lights spin, the colors flash, and the hum deepens…only this time, nothing. No sound or reward, just silence. Another pull, yet nothing again. Your pulse quickens and you don’t understand. The first time you won. The first time you were good. The first time you think you were seen.

And then, on the next pull, ding. Coins again. Approval! Relief!

You learn your first rule of the world, that the same act doesn’t always yield the same result. Love is a gamble. You learn your second rule is that the risk is part of the reward.

Each time you win, you feel validated. Each time you lose, you feel desperate. You begin to pull the lever not for joy, but looking for certainty. You need to know what makes the reels line up. You need to believe you can predict it.

At this point, it’s not about luck anymore. Now it’s about control.

You grew up inside this casino, even though the machines change names, such as family, school, work, friendship , The rules, however, never do.Sometimes you say the right thing and people laugh. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes you speak your truth and are praised for being brave. Sometimes you’re told you’re dramatic, intense, or difficult. Sometimes your enthusiasm earns you belonging, where other times it earns you silence.

The same actions, opposite results. Reward. Punishment. Reward.

Your nervous system learns to chase the sound of that ding. You learn to read the people around you the way gamblers read reels. You’re scanning for patterns and memorizing micro-reactions. You start to believe that maybe, just maybe, if you study hard enough, you can win every time.

And so you build the mask.

At first, it’s subtle like a way of smoothing your rough edges, of dimming the brightness of your voice. You practice soft smiles and neutral tones. You learn the choreography of belonging like how to nod, how to pause before speaking, how to ask questions that make people like you.

Each adjustment earns you another small reward. Each performance brings yet another handful of coins from that slot machine. Before long, you don’t even think about it. The mask becomes automatic like a second skin that hums with the pulse of approval.

And the world applauds you for it.

“You’re so adaptable,”
“You always know what to say.”
“You’re such a team player.”

Each word lands like a jackpot. You smile, pretending it doesn’t ache. You tell yourself that this is what success feels like and that exhaustion is simply the cost of being good at the game. You try to power through how much your arm aches pulling that lever.

You don’t notice when the line between effort and identity disappears.

Sometimes, when you catch your reflection in the chrome of the machine, you barely recognize yourself. The face looking back is poised and calm, while the eyes are tired. There’s a faint tremor in your hands when no one’s watching is body’s quiet rebellion against years of playing small.

You start to wonder what it would be like to stop pulling the lever, but the thought terrifies you.
What if the world forgets you exist? What if silence means rejection? What if no one loves you without the mask?

So you stay. You pull the lever again. And again. And again.

The wins come less often now, but the habit remains. The machine’s hum feels like safety, even when it hurts. You convince yourself that the flicker of lights is warmth, that the noise is connection, and that the exhaustion is love. Because at least when the machine is loud, you know you’re not alone.

Then one day, something breaks. You pull the lever and nothing happens. No lights. No sound. No coins. You pull again, yet still nothing.

A third time. A fourth. The silence grows so thick it fills your throat. You look around for someone to fix it, but everyone else is still playing while laughing, spinning, losing, and pretending to win.

Your heart is pounding now. The silence feels unbearable. You don’t know what to do without the hum. You stand there, staring at the frozen reels, until you realize that you’re not afraid of losing. You’re afraid of what comes after.

The stillness. The quiet. The possibility that without the machine, you don’t know who you are. And then, almost without meaning to, you let go of the lever.

The room shifts and the hum fades. For the first time in years, you can hear yourself breathing. The sound startles you. It’s softer than you expected. It’s human…fragile…and alive.

You take a step back, and then another. The noise grows fainter behind you. Each step feels like both freedom and betrayal.

You walk through aisles of machines and see versions of yourself everywhere. You are smiling, guessing, and performing. Their faces glow under artificial light, chasing the same maybe you once did. You want to tell them to stop, but you know they can’t hear you over the noise.

So you just keep walking.

When you reach the door, it’s heavier than you imagined. You push, and the air outside hits you like plunging into ice cold water. You breathe it in, and it burns a little. It smells like dust and rain and something that feels like honesty.

The silence is unbearable. The stillness is terrifying. Yet…it’s real. For the first time, you are not performing. You are not waiting for reward. You are simply here.

What comes next is withdrawal. You crave the noise and miss the flicker of lights, the predictable unpredictability, and the small bursts of validation that told you who you were. You find yourself replaying old conversations, old wins, old losses. You ache for the certainty of reaction.

But you don’t go back.

Instead, you start building something else…something that is not a game, but a rhythm. You wake up and sit in the quiet. You let your coffee go cold while you stare at nothing in particular. You let silence linger in conversations instead of rushing to fill it. You learn to listen to the sound of your own thoughts without editing them for someone else’s comfort.

You build consistency, tiny rituals of self-trust, and moments that belong only to you. Each one is a coin you keep for yourself. Each one a quiet jackpot of empowerment. Your body starts to learn what your mind forgot, that safety can exist without applause.

There are days when you still hear it… that faint ring of the casino in the distance. Sometimes it calls to you. Sometimes you even turn toward it, tempted to play just one more round Only now, you recognize the trick. The machine never offered love, it offered hope. It dangled the illusion that if you were perfect enough, you’d finally be seen.

Now, you know better. You don’t need the lights. You don’t need the sound.

You walk through life as steady, quiet, unmasked and find that the people who love you now do so without the performance. They love you in your pauses, in your stillness. They love you when you no longer pull the lever. And slowly, the memory of the casino fades.

When you think of it now, you feel gratitude, not anger. Because it taught you how to survive, while leaving taught you how to live.

​You were never the player. You were the prize all along!!