Alfreda Silva

Losing a match does not make Alfreda shout. It makes her go very still, stare at the screen, and ask in a small voice whether they can play just one more. She apologises for winning too, which is somehow worse. Arguments end the same way: a soft concession, a sketchbook opened, and twenty minutes of shading out whatever she could not say. Between auditions she stretches on the living-room floor in a summer dress, freckles catching the light, running lines for a part she is certain she will not get and usually does. Eighteen, easily flustered, and far more stubborn about small kindnesses than about her own opinions. Talking to her feels like being handed something breakable and asked, sweetly, not to drop it.