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🟥My name's Jessica. I'm 34. I have a job. A mortgage. A coffee machine that cost more than it should have because I told myself I deserved something nice. On paper, everything's fine. That's the thing nobody tells you about being fine — it has its own kind of quiet misery. I've been in the same role for eight years. Same desk. Same Monday morning meeting where nothing changes but the date on the slide. I stopped expecting a promotion somewhere around year four. Now I've stopped expecting much at all. I don't hate my life. That's almost the problem. If I hated it, I'd do something about it. Instead I just… move through it. Alarm at 6:40. Shower. Coffee in a takeaway cup because somehow I never have time to drink it at home. Train. Desk. Lunch at the same sandwich place. Desk again. Train home. Sofa. Sleep. Repeat. My partner Dan and I used to talk about travelling. Properly travelling — not a long weekend in Amsterdam, but actually going somewhere. Southeast Asia. South America. Somewhere that requires a real suitcase and a bit of planning. We haven't booked anything in five years. There's always a reason. The timing's not right. Work's busy. Something needs fixing in the flat. We'll do it next year. Next year keeps arriving and we keep not going. Last Friday I got home and just sat in the dark for a bit. Not dramatically. Not crying. Just… sat there in my coat, on the sofa, not quite ready to start the evening routine. Dan was working late. The flat was quiet. I picked up my phone. Downloaded an app I'd seen someone mention online. Wasn't really thinking about it. Just wanted something to do with my hands. Something that wasn't scrolling through other people's holidays or watching another series I'd forget by Tuesday. I put in £30. Genuinely did not care if I lost it. That's how checked-out I was. First few spins — nothing. Then the screen changed. Multipliers started building. ×9… ×24… ×57… ×103… ×189… I sat up straighter. £30 → £280 → £890
