Victory flashes up on her screen, but the triumphant fanfare in her ears is soon overpowered by the squeaking of plastic wheels on the floor. Her opponent has slid over from one of the other practice room PCs, scratching the back of his neck. Sungwook always did that when he lost, but only to her.

“Ah, good one Tae. Wasn’t expecting the push at my fourth….how did you power up so fast?”

She picks up her book from the desk, shows the page to him. “Stop making bio at eight minutes. Make two factories at this time, that avoids a common drop timing. Then you can push the third base easily at–“

“Alright, hang on. Let me type this up.“

Tae walks over to his PC and shows him the book, not letting go of it for a second. Sungwook leans towards her, squinting at her handwritten scrawl while his fingers hammer at the keys.

“Thanks. Really appreciated.” He gives her a thumbs up, and she tries to curl her lips into a smile for her teammate before she gives up and returns to her computer, powering it down for the night. It’s yet another day staying late at the house – it had happened so often now that staying late had become her usual hours, and what had been ‘on time’ was now early. Now, it was past 10 and she didn’t have to time to dally unless she wanted to miss the train home.

She gathers her things and looks at the phone in her hand. It’s dead silent, the black screen reflecting her tired face back at her. No messages. Nothing from Miyoung - both of them were so busy now. Each time they spoke, no, messaged, it was simply about their days. And it was the same thing every time. The same games, the same practice for the both of them.

And then it lights up with a bright screen and an even brighter smile. She answers right away.

“Miyoung?”

“Tae! Oh, Tae! Gosh…I haven’t heard your voice in so long.” Rustling, sniffing. Is Miyoung crying?

“Is everything OK?”

“It’s – no. No, I’m not alright.”

She should be used to this by now, that feeling when she wants to say something, but can’t pick the right words. It always makes her head hurt, but now the pain is in chest too. “I, I’m – what’s not alright?”

“I’m sick of this. I’m sick of not seeing my family. I’ve just been dancing for five hours straight, and then I have four hours of sleep before I have to get up and do it all again. I have to sneak my phone into the bathroom to call you. No, I am very not OK!”

“Miyoung, um….” She’s never felt more helpless before in her life. “It’s OK, it’s OK,” she mumbles as she hears more sniffing and crying come through the call. “I’m here, I’m here, you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I just – I thought I wanted this, I didn’t….I just don’t know any more. I don’t know if it’s worth it.” Tae knows what Miyoung is like when she’s frustrated or angry. There’s an animation, an energy to her. This isn’t what Miyoung is supposed to sound like – lost for words, struggling to talk through the tears.

“I…I can’t answer that for you. But it’s your dream, right?”

“Yes, I know. It was…I don’t know. I don’t know what the I’m doing here, sometimes. I – I think I might quit - ”

“Could you imagine doing anything else?”

“No, you’re right.” Miyoung pauses, takes a breath. “That’s like you, right? You and your game.”

The change of subject confuses her. Why are they talking about her now? “Sorry, what do you mean?”

“Tae…your game. Do you ever feel like not playing?” She can’t think of what to say to that. How does she do it? She doesn’t know – it’s just automatic. Like it would take conscious effort to stop herself from playing. “I mean, what if you’re sick. Or you get a bad night’s sleep, or something like that.”

“I just play anyway. “I’m not sure….I just – do it. “I – I’m sorry I don’t have any advice. It’s just the way I am.” The line crackles, the sound of air rushing over the mic as Miyoung sighs. “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“Tae, Tae, I have to go. But – I want to say….you inspire me. You always have. I’m not going to give up.”

“I don’t doubt that at all.”

“And Tae?”

“Yes?”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” Later, she would think about how easy those words were to say, compared to everything else. For now, the line is silent but for the crackle of the call.

///

She’s lost. She knows it. She fended off the last attack, but her economy is in shambles. There’s the moment in a match, when one player’s lost – she’s seen it on stream – where they take their hands off keyboard and mouse. Her hands aren’t letting her, still hitting the keys – controlling the last of her forces as they fall back to her beleaguered main base.

Now comes the ceremony that the losing player must always conduct. It’s considered impolite to let the enemy waste their time hunting down every last one of your buildings on the map, cleansing them from existence. To be honourable in defeat, she has to type “GG” and leave the match, effectively surrendering to her opponent. Her hands have already given up, lifting from the keyboard and leaving her units without a commander, mindlessly throwing themselves into the enemy.

Somehow she makes it out of the booth, and everything’s a blur. Someone hands her a water bottle, somehow she makes it out of the back of the studio. The people part around her, afraid to get too close as she heads back to the ready room. Thankfully her coach isn’t there to see her slam her fists down on the table.

She’s not sure what’s worse. She could have beaten him, maybe, if she did everything right. It was possible, in some sense. She could have anticipated his rush in the second game. She could have controlled better in her assault on his base in the third game. Her fingers could have moved to press the right keys at the right time and her brain could have thought the correct thoughts -

It’s all possible. And at the same time, she feels like if she had to relive this – play the same match over a hundred times, she still would never win. All the effort, all the practice - a hundred hours, two hundred hours, three hundred – if only it was as simple as that. But she did work hard – bled and cried and burned away those midnight hours – and it wasn’t good enough. Her fingers are fast enough, she can think fast enough to strategize. So why can’t she win? How do you practice for this?

The exit door from the studio opens, and her coach walks out to join her in sitting on the steps. Of course he has to see her now. What’s he going to say? Tell her to quit? Say that she’s not good enough, cause she’s a girl?

“I’ll tell you a story. I used to be a player as well, you know. Brood War. I wasn’t bad either. There was this tournament, 2003 Quarterfinals, I remember. I lost to some guy, Sea, I think. He just destroyed me in every game. I practiced a week non-stop for that guy and still he completely wrecked me. I cried back then too.” He pauses, tilting his head up a little. She can see it in eyes, the last moments of those matches playing back in his mind. She knows that look. “The hard truth is –“

Here it comes.

“- you’re going to have to get used to this, Tae. You’re not like a god like Flash, or Jaedong, or Bisu, or Nestea. Not yet, at least. Which means you’re going to lose, a lot. What makes them great isn’t that they won so much. It’s because they got up off the ground when they lost and still gave it everything. That after they were crushes and lost it all, they threw themselves at it again – and they did it with a smile, and made it look easy.”

“Or you could give up. You’ll be just another ID on the tournament listings. It won’t even be that bad, you’re a smart kid. You can finish high school, go to college, get some office job. You might even coach some new kids in whatever the hot new esport is. But I don’t think you’d be happy with that.”

“I’ll give you….two days off. Call who you want to. Go spend some time with your family. But I expect you back at the house on Thursday.”

She feels like pushing him away, but thankfully he gets up and leaves her alone.

///

The train ride home is a lonely one. Normally she’d be buried in her notes, thinking of strategies and tactics – or passed out on the seat, exhausted from the day’s practice. Now she’s still wired from the match, but thinking about the game is the last thing she wants to do right now, her eyes unfocusing as she stares out the window, her mind playing back her defeat.

Only people like her walk the streets at this hour – tired, shambling their way home, legs on autopilot. Somehow they still carry her from the train station and back home to the small place above the glasses shop. Only once she’s back in her bedroom do they give out, dumping her face down onto her bed. She’s safe here now, ensconced and alone. With the door closed, her parents won’t be able to hear if she cries into her pillow, she knows that. She fishes her phone out of her bag and her fingers slip across the screen as she makes a call.

“What’s wrong Tae?”

“I-I lost. I didn’t even put up a fight –“ She chokes back more tears.

“Tae, oh – Tae, it’s ok, it’s ok.”

“I don’t understand, I did everything right. It was just as I practiced, and I still couldn’t win.”

She knows, on some level, that this was to expected. That she had to lose badly at some point or the other. It’s a statistical inevitability. And yet that feeling eats at her from the inside. She couldn’t win, because she wasn’t good enough. She’ll never be good enough. And because this all she knows, she’s worthless. She can’t do anything else -

“Tae, listen to me. You belong up there. On the stage, on TV, whatever. Cause you’re brilliant, Tae. Talent, hard work, genius – you have it. I know you do.”

She tries to reply, but all she can do is sniff and swallow her tears.

“You’ll make it, Tae. Get some rest – “

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

She moves over to desk and sits down. Her finger pushes the power button on her PC, power surging through the black box on her desk as she straightens in her chair.

“I’m gonna play some practice games. Go to bed, Miyoung. It’s late.”

“Alright, Tae. Take of care of yourself.”

“You too. And thank you.”