Empty Victory

Back in the day, we used to sit shoulder‑to‑shoulder with our boys and play video games.
Winning and losing together.
Laughing at the enemies we crushed,
celebrating every comeback like it was life or death.

Those moments were pure.
They were so simple yet so perfect.

But there was always a strange thing about those nights.
When everyone finally went to sleep… the game stopped being fun.
The victories felt hollow.
You’d win, but it wasn’t really a win.
Because there was no one left to celebrate with.

I’ll never forget one night with my brothers.

We were playing a game, and as always, I was dead‑set on winning.
They were younger, less experienced, making mistakes.
We lost again and again, and my patience evaporated.

Eventually, I snapped and angrily kicked them out of the room.
Frustrated.
Hungry for victory.

Then I won.
I had achieved what I thought I wanted.
Finally.

Full of excitement, I turned around ready to cheer
and I froze.

The smile disappeared.

The room was empty.

Just me… alone… holding a meaningless victory.

I hated that victory.
I wished that it never happened.

I had never felt something like this before.
I hated myself for winning that time.

Back then, I understood something:
Victory only matters if you’ve got someone to celebrate it with.
Otherwise, it becomes a silent, hollow burden.
An empty victory.

And that —
is far worse than losing.

—Yanni