When I Deleted My Save File: A Quiet Rebellion in the Digital Arena

I used to think斗鸡 was a ladder to fortune—until I realized it was a mirror.

The first time I clicked ‘New Game,’ it felt like dancing barefoot at Rio’s Carnival: loud, chaotic, electric. I chased bonuses like fireflies in midnight alleys—each spin a pulse of hope wrapped in algorithms meant to distract.

But then came the night I deleted my save file.

No one saw me do it. No leaderboard screamed. Just me, my laptop glowing softly under blue-gray light, headphones on, playing for twenty minutes with no win—but feeling whole. The rhythm wasn’t about odds. It was about breath.

I stopped chasing ‘multiplier’ events. Stopped waiting for ‘golden flame’ bonuses that never arrived on time. Instead, I joined the quiet community where others shared screenshots with tears—and laughter that didn’t need to be seen to be real.

This isn’t gambling. It’s grieving what you thought you’d earn. It’s honoring the space between your choices—the silent click before you hit ‘Confirm’.

My therapist asked: ‘What did you feel when you deleted it?’ I said: ‘I finally heard myself breathe.’

You don’t need more wins to be whole. You just need to stop pretending you’re chasing something that doesn’t love you back.