I Lost My Character… And Found Myself

It was just a name on a screen—Luna, the fox with copper eyes who wandered the forest at twilight.

I’d spent months building her: choosing her coat color, her voice line, her favorite tree to rest under.

Then one day, she vanished.

Not deleted. Not reset. Just… gone.

No error message. No explanation.

Just silence where her footsteps used to echo.

I didn’t cry at first. I checked my account three times. Refreshed the page like it was magic.

But when I finally sat still—really still—I realized: this wasn’t just about losing a character. It was about losing time I’d poured into someone who wasn’t real… but felt more true than anyone else I knew that year.

The Grief Was Real (Even If It Was Digital)

They say games are escape. But sometimes they’re mirrors—reflections we don’t want to face until we’re ready.

That winter, I was drowning in loneliness after moving from Brooklyn to an empty apartment in Portland. The world felt too loud and too quiet all at once.

Luna was my anchor—a creature shaped by me, shaped through choice and care and small decisions:

• She liked rain-slick stones
• She never spoke unless asked
• She remembered every path she’d walked before

When she disappeared? It felt like someone erased part of my memory.

Some endings aren’t failures—they’re invitations.

## The Unplanned Healing Begins

I started writing letters to Luna—not messages for her to read,

but for me to release:

• "You were brave when you climbed the broken bridge." 
• "You didn’t need me to save you—but you needed me anyway." 
• "Thank you for showing up when no one else did." 

These weren’t gameplay logs or fan fiction—they were prayers without gods.
And slowly? The weight lifted—not because she came back,

to because I did.

The game didn’t fix anything,

to because it gave space for something real: grief without performance, tears without audience, sorrow without spectacle.

## What Games Can Be When They Stop Trying to Win

We’ve been told games must entertain, must challenge, must reward with coins or levels or stars—

but what if they could also heal? What if they could be places where we learn how to hold our own sadness? The developers behind this little forest game never said it would do that—but somehow, after years of polished mechanics and flashy UIs, it became one of the most emotionally honest spaces I’ve ever stepped into. The rhythm wasn’t speed—it was breath. The victory wasn’t high score—it was presence. The win wasn’t gold—it was peace.*

• Some endings aren’t failures—they’re invitations. * * * * * * * * * * ​​​​​​​​​​​​⁍|ὑ7|ἳE|ὊC|Ὂ9|_____ What game helped you heal? Share your story anonymously below—or just sit with it awhile. You’re not alone in your quiet moments.