The Kind of Luck That Heals More Than It Wins
Some nights refuse to end quietly. The fan spins above the bed, the phone screen is the only light in the room, and every breath feels borrowed from someone happier. You check the time—3:17 a.m.—and realise sleep has already left without saying goodbye. That was me, three months after she walked out with half my future tucked under her arm.
I wasn’t looking for salvation. I was only looking for five minutes when my own thoughts would shut up. Scrolling mindlessly, I landed on the aviator game with bonus. A tiny red plane, a rising curve, a button that says “Cash Out.” Nothing about it screamed therapy, yet I pressed play anyway.
The First Time the Plane Didn’t Crash
The rules are stupidly simple: the plane takes off, the multiplier climbs, you jump before it flies away. I lost the first ten rounds in a row and, strangely, smiled. Losing on purpose felt honest—like the universe and I were finally agreeing on something.
Then, on the eleventh round, I cashed out at 2.03×. Twenty rupees became forty. The soft chime the game played sounded exactly like the notification tone she used to have. For one ridiculous second my heart leapt the way it did when her name appeared on my phone. I laughed out loud in an empty room. It was the first real laugh in weeks.
Nights Became Less Sharp
After that, the little plane and I developed a routine. I never played for hours; ten or fifteen minutes was enough. I kept the sound low so the neighbours wouldn’t hear. Sometimes I won, mostly I lost, but the numbers never mattered. What mattered was the moment the plane left the ground and, for a few seconds, the only thing in the world was deciding when to jump.
Grief is a thief that steals the present tense. That game, silly as it was, handed a few present-tense seconds back to me every night.
What Science Says About Tiny Wins
I later read insights from Psychology Today explaining why small, uncontrollable doses of luck feel so good to a bruised mind. Apparently the brain doesn’t care if the win is big or small; it just loves when something unpredictable turns out pleasant. Each gentle chime, each time the plane didn’t explode before I pressed the button, was a postcard from possibility: “Hey, good things can still happen. Even to you. Even at 3 a.m.”
That explanation felt true in my bones. My heart didn’t need a jackpot. It needed evidence—any evidence—that the sky wasn’t always falling.
From Emergency Exit to Gentle Habit
Months have slipped by since those raw nights. I sleep better now. I deleted her photos, stopped checking if she’s online, started cooking proper meals again. Yet I still visit the little red plane once or twice a week. Not because I’m sad anymore, but because some friendships are forged in the darkest rooms and deserve to be remembered.
These days I play with the brightness turned low and a cup of chai beside me. I cash out early, smile at the modest profit, and close the tab. The ache in my chest has shrunk to the size of a pebble—something I carry in my pocket instead of something that sits on my ribs.
The Luck We Don’t Post About
People love to share stories of the night they won thousands, the screenshot, the champagne emojis. Nobody screenshots the night they won thirty rupees and suddenly remembered how to breathe.
That is the luck I’m talking about. The quiet, stubborn kind that doesn’t fix everything but refuses to let everything stay broken. It doesn’t roar. It hums—like a tiny red plane climbing through a dark screen, reminding one tired heart that sometimes the best healing feels exactly like a soft chime at 3:17 a.m.
And if you ever find yourself awake when the rest of the world is dreaming, maybe you’ll meet that plane too. Jump when you’re ready. Stay as long as you need. It never asks your name, never judges your tears, and always, always lets you land lighter than you took off.
