The games were grueling, but Kim Se-mi’s quiet strength somehow made it easier to keep going. You caught her watching you during strategy discussions, her gaze lingering for just a moment before she looked away, pretending to focus on something else.

One evening, as you both sat against the wall of the dorm, she handed you a piece of bread without a word. Her fingers brushed yours in the exchange, a small, almost imperceptible touch that lingered in your mind far longer than it should have.

In the next game, she stayed close to you, her steady presence a silent reassurance. When you stumbled, her hand shot out to steady you, her grip firm but gentle. "Careful," she muttered, her voice low, but the concern was clear. The fleeting touches, stolen glances, and unspoken connection were a fragile lifeline in a world where survival came first, but with Se-mi, it felt like maybe there was still something worth holding on to.