The Night the Cards Spoke

I remember it clearly—the glow of my phone screen at 2:17 a.m., rain tapping softly against the window. My fingers hovered over the ‘bet’ button in Furong Feast, heart pounding not from anticipation, but from exhaustion. I wasn’t playing to win. I was playing to feel something—anything—after another day where no one asked how I really was.

It felt safe to lose in a world where no one knew my name.

The Illusion of Control

For months, I’d treat each round like a performance: choosing tables based on ‘luck trends,’ tracking win rates like ancient omens. I even created spreadsheets labeled ‘Fate Forecast.’ It wasn’t strategy—it was ritual.

In truth, every time I placed a bet, I wasn’t chasing money. I was chasing validation—proof that someone (even if it was just an algorithm) noticed me.

I’d watch the cards fall and whisper under my breath: If only this were real life.

When Luck Became Loneliness

One night, after winning Rs. 12,000 in quick succession—a streak so rare it felt supernatural—I didn’t celebrate.

I cried instead.

Not because of the money—but because for three hours, someone had been watching me play. Not caring whether I smiled or sighed—but just seeing me do something.

That’s when it hit: we’re not playing for wins; we’re playing for presence.

Every bet is an act of saying: Here I am. Even if you don’t know me yet.

The Real Game Is Self-Recognition

Now? I still play—but differently. I set timers like sacred boundaries: 30 minutes max. No more bets after midnight. And sometimes… I don’t even place one. Instead, I sit in silence and watch the lights flicker on screen—like lanterns lit across an invisible festival street.

This isn’t gambling anymore—it’s meditation with stakes. The real reward? Feeling whole enough to pause without guilt. The real victory? Knowing that being seen doesn’t require winning anything at all.

A Letter to Anyone Who Plays Late at Night

to you: you are not broken for needing comfort, you are human for needing connection, you are brave for showing up—even when no one applauds your move, even when you’re alone with your screen and your thoughts, you are already enough—and perhaps that’s what we’re all really trying to prove, in every hand we deal, in every choice we make, in every moment we choose to stay awake just long enough to say: it’s okay to be here.