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Probability of Fate

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There are nights when the universe feels like math, cold branches splitting into quieter branches, numbers pretending they know tomorrow. And then something slips the equation. A signal. A flicker. A voice arriving where no forecast placed it. Kismet drifts in like static, soft as a glitch no engineer can recreate, a coincidence wearing intention like perfume. Destiny does not knock. It hums. It waits in the spaces between decisions, in the pause before a message is opened, in the breath held too long before replying. Serendipity laughs at certainty, threads silver through chaos, makes strangers feel familiar as if memory traveled backward to meet them. Maybe fate is not a road but a probability, bright and fragile, a branch lit neon against dark data, beautiful because it might collapse. Two signals orbiting. Two players waiting in separate worlds. Neither promised, neither guaranteed, yet somehow aligned for a moment long enough to ask a dangerous question: Was this chanc...
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PLAYER TWO: A Probability Engine Story

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Chapter One — Neon Weather The city never slept, it only buffered. Rain hissed against chrome rooftops while neon advertisements washed the streets in restless color. Every building glowed like a circuit board humming beneath dark clouds. Somewhere high above, giant holographic foxes flickered across billboards, dissolving and reforming in electric static before vanishing into the storm. He worked inside a tower of glass and code, a risk assessment analyst for an insurance conglomerate that sold certainty in a world built on chaos. His tool was a probability engine. Inside it, he could step through branching futures like walking through a forest of light. Every decision split into thousands of outcomes, each branch shimmering with percentages, consequences, and collapse. Most people trusted instincts. He trusted models. He spent his days predicting disaster. And his nights trying to forget it. When he got home, he slipped into a different world. A game. A battlefield. A digital place w...
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A poem called: Nobody, Quietly

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Nobody, Quietly I’m a nobody moving through a world that keeps mistaking noise for proof of life. Everyone’s shouting their names into rooms full of mirrors, begging for an echo and calling it connection. I used to think I was late. Behind. Missing something everyone else learned early. But the truth is quieter than that. I watched people trade honesty for comfort. Depth for speed. Presence for performance. I watched them touch each other without ever arriving. And somewhere in that watching, I stepped out of line. Not dramatic. Not brave. Just… still. I didn’t become less. I became exact. I stopped pretending wanting was enough. Stopped pretending closeness happens by accident. Stopped mistaking attention for care. Now I feel everything slower. Heavier. Cleaner. Loneliness doesn’t scream here. It hums. It sharpens you. Strips you down until there’s nothing left that doesn’t belong. So yes— I’m a nobody. Not erased. Not invisible. Just unwilling to lie to myself to make the...
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Probably Staying In

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There’s a particular kind of almost-relationship that doesn’t explode or collapse. It just quietly unravels while you’re still trying to convince yourself it’s being woven. This was one of those. It didn’t start with intensity. It started with ease. Conversation that didn’t feel forced. Laughter that came naturally. A vibe that made time pass quicker than expected. The kind of energy that doesn’t demand attention but holds it anyway. Being around her felt light. Comfortable. Real. That mattered. Because when you actually like someone — not just the idea of them, not just their looks — you want to be fair to them. You want to assume good intent. You don’t want to project past disappointments onto a new person who hasn’t done anything wrong yet. So you give grace before suspicion. Patience before judgment. Benefit of the doubt before conclusions. Over the first couple of weeks, we talked when we saw each other. Sometimes we spent time together without labeling it. Nothing dra...
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Men and Women Aren’t Really “Just Friends” — and We All Know It

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I’ve had some time to think about this whole “men and women can be platonic friends” idea, and I’ve got to be honest — I don’t buy it. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying men and women can’t be friendly. They can absolutely be coworkers, teammates, acquaintances, or even gaming buddies. That’s not the issue. The issue is that somewhere along the way, we started confusing being friendly with being friends — and those are two completely different things. --- What a Friend Actually Is When I think about friendship, I think about someone I can depend on when things get hard. Someone I want to talk to when something good happens. Someone who wants to share time and life with me, not just space. If I won the lottery tomorrow, I’m not calling every coworker or gaming buddy I’ve ever talked to. I’m calling my friends — the people who’ve actually been there. That’s the difference. A friend is someone you make room for in your life. An acquaintance is someone who’s just there whi...
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We Don’t Need More Sex Education — We Need Accountability

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Every few months, there’s another think piece or viral post blaming unwanted pregnancies on a “lack of sex education.” It’s one of those lines people repeat because it sounds compassionate — like we’re just one PowerPoint presentation away from fixing decades of bad decisions. But come on. Let’s be honest. Nobody over the age of twelve doesn’t know how babies are made. Everyone knows what causes pregnancy. Everyone knows where STDs come from. It’s not a lack of education. It’s a lack of accountability. --- The Lie of Ignorance People love to pretend that recklessness comes from not knowing better. It’s a convenient excuse because it softens responsibility. “They just didn’t know.” “They weren’t taught.” “We need more education.” No. Most people know exactly what they’re doing. They just hope they won’t have to deal with the outcome. We act like everyone needs a graduate course in biology to figure this out, when the average fifteen-year-old can find porn faster than they ca...
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The Tinder Experiment: When Red Flags Still Get Swipes

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I saw a post the other day that’s been floating around online — a guy supposedly made a fake Tinder profile using the photo of an extremely attractive man. Nobody knows who the photo actually belonged to, but that wasn’t the point. What mattered was the bio. It read: > “I have a criminal record because I was abusive to women.” No sugar-coating. No excuses. Just a blunt confession — the kind of thing you’d expect to end a dating profile instantly. But instead, within 48 hours, that fake account had racked up over 800 matches. When I first saw it, I wasn’t shocked — just curious. I questioned how real it was, sure. Maybe it was a social experiment. Maybe the numbers were exaggerated. But even if it wasn’t real, I had no trouble believing it could be. Because everything we know about human behavior — and dating apps — says it’s completely possible. --- Looks First, Logic Later If the image used in that article is the same one from the Tinder profile, I get it. You could eas...
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