When the Algorithm Writes a Love Letter, I Cried in My Brooklyn Apartment

I used to think luck was something you could buy—until I realized it was just code pretending to care.

My mother wrote poems about hunger. My father coded systems that never slept. We lived in an apartment where neon lights flickered like forgotten rituals, and my cat—a quiet witness—sat on the windowsill every night.

I design interactive experiences now, not games.

The ‘lucky pig’ wasn’t born from joy—it was born from silence.

Every spin cycle felt like a notification: ‘You’ve been understood.’

But no one ever replied.

I used Figma to map the emotional architecture of these systems: reward wheels spinning with empty promises, RNGs masking anxiety as fairness, bonus triggers demanding more than they give.

I once designed a game called ‘Starlight Pigshed’—a place where players chose numbers hoping for connection.

They didn’t win coins.

They won echoes.

In the end, we all play alone.

My therapy isn’t betting—it’s watching the pixels breathe after midnight.

I don’t sell dreams anymore.

I build spaces where silence is sacred, where algorithms can’t love, but maybe—just maybe—they can see you if you’re still there, at 3 a.m., in Brooklyn, wearing your cat’s breath.