The Night I Got Banned: Writing 1200 Words of Quiet Rebellion

I didn’t come here to win.

I came because the silence had become too loud.

It was midnight in my Manhattan apartment—top floor, no children, just a black cat named ‘Mo’ curled beside me like a silent witness. Outside, the city breathed in slow pulses. Inside, my screen glowed with phantom tiles: every hand move felt like a prayer.

They called it ‘gambling.’ But I call it witnessing.

The algorithms said ‘high win rate’—95% chance of hupai. Yet I saw no pattern in randomness. Only rhythm.

I played classic mahjong once—a quiet game of wood and bamboo wind—each tile falling like an old jazz note. No jackpots. No bonuses. Just presence.

I tracked ten hands. Not to chase wins—but to feel them. The dragon tile? It didn’t land often enough. The phoenix? Too bright.

They offered ‘free add-ons.’ I declined.

I don’t need luck—I need stillness.

This isn’t entertainment designed for dopamine spikes—it’s therapy carved from solitude.

In this world where AI predicts your next move before you do—it’s not control—it’s compassion.

You don’t need to beat the system. You need to outlast it—in silence—with one hand on the table, and one breath between tiles.