Have You Ever Tried Pretending to Be Happy While the Silence Keeps Speaking?

I used to think victory was measured in wins—until I sat alone in my North Side apartment, watching the glow of digital screens at 2 a.m., replaying hand histories no one else saw.

The game wasn’t about luck. It was about rhythm—the quiet pulse between庄 and 閒, like a jazz solo held just long enough to breathe. Every bet felt like a whispered prayer in a room full of strangers who never asked if they were okay.

I remember my mother humming old blues while my father coded his first algorithm at dawn. We didn’t talk about odds—we talked about silence. The RNG didn’t lie; it just didn’t care enough to answer.

You don’t need a strategy to win. You need permission to pause. To step away from the table after three losses and watch the cloud pass over Chicago’s skyline—not as escape, but as remembrance.

I once posted: ‘Why do we always feel empty after victory?’ A stranger replied: ‘Because we thought we were supposed to be full.’

This isn’t a guidebook for players. It’s an open door for those who know that silence isn’t cold—it’s where souls are整理 themselves.

Come sit with me tonight. The next hand won’t fix you. But maybe… it’ll let you finally hear yourself.