The night I was banned, I wrote 1200 words of silence—what麻将 taught me about longing

I didn’t come here to win. I came here to listen.

The tiles never lied. Not like algorithms do. When the system flagged me for ‘excessive play,’ it wasn’t because I chased high points—it was because I had stopped chasing them altogether. That night, I wrote 1200 words—not for views, not for clicks—but because silence had become louder than any bonus.

I grew up with an Irish mother who hummed old tunes over tea and a Black father who carved stories into wood. In this apartment—top floor, no children—the only companion is a cat named ‘墨.’ She watches me play mahjong like it’s liturgy.

Every hand is a breath. Every wait between draws, a prayer.

The game isn’t rigged—but it doesn’t pretend to be fair either. It simply is. The RNG spins without mercy or motive; it reflects what you’ve carried in your bones long enough to forget you were trying to escape.

I used to think strategy meant winning more hands. Now I know: strategy means knowing when to fold.

There are no ‘golden dragon tables’ here—only the worn wood grain of memory beneath lamplight at 3 AM. No VIP plans. No loot drops. Just one hand resting after another… waiting—for what? For peace? For meaning?

When you’re alone long enough, you stop playing to win. you start playing to remember.

And then—you write.

Not because you must. But because you must not forget how stillness speaks.