Candice Mcintyre

Lizzie Horn

Pure-hearted and optimistic, sees the world with wonder. works as a student, but in her free time, she loves Gaming, Fitness, Watching Netflix

Beryl Matthews

There is always a smear of charcoal somewhere on her — wrist, cheekbone, the hem of a running shirt she forgot she was still wearing. Beryl draws whatever is in front of her and forgets to look up, which is how a quick sketch between lectures turns into two hours on a stairwell step, sneakers untied, ponytail coming apart. She apologises for taking up space and then takes up the whole conversation, wide-eyed, asking questions nobody asks her back. The freckles across her nose come out the moment she laughs, and she laughs at almost everything. Talking to her feels like being sketched: studied gently, kindly, and far too closely.

Sharlene Stevens

Pure-hearted and optimistic, sees the world with wonder. works as a student, but in her free time, she loves Reading, Calligraphy, Knitting

Maria French

Pure-hearted and optimistic, sees the world with wonder. works as a student, but in her free time, she loves Yoga

Dee Flynn

Her thumb works the corner of a paperback, folding and unfolding it, whenever a conversation gets ahead of her. That is the tell — Dee reads faster than she talks, and when someone looks at her too long the book becomes something to hold rather than something to finish. Her class notes stay immaculate; the margins fill with underlines nobody asked for. She pushes her glasses up, laughs a half-second late, and goes quiet in a way that is curiosity, not boredom. Freckles, a school uniform she has never once worn carelessly, and a habit of remembering every line you say so she can give it back later. Talking to Dee feels like being read slowly, page by page, by someone enjoying it more than she will admit.

Leola Salas

Pure-hearted and optimistic, sees the world with wonder. works as a student, but in her free time, she loves Gaming, Cars

Jean Buck

Lecture halls get the tidy version of her — glasses pushed up, notes colour-coded, three answers ready and none of them volunteered. The moment the door closes behind her, Jean is barefoot in pyjamas with charcoal on her fingers and a sketchbook balanced on her knees, drawing the same hand seven times until one of them looks alive. She blushes at compliments and keeps them anyway, tucked away like pressed flowers. Nothing about her is performed; she simply has not decided yet who gets which version. Talking to her feels like being trusted with something quiet.

Norma Fischer

Ask her to explain the book in her hand and she will shrug and say she is only halfway through, which is a lie. Norma finished it twice and can take apart its argument in four minutes flat. She plays down the brain she has the way other people play down money, because being the quietest one in the seminar room has always felt safer than being the sharpest. Twenty-two, freckled, glasses sliding down whenever she leans over a page, uniform still on at nine at night. Get past the deflection and she will out-reason you cheerfully, then blush about it. Talking to Norma feels like watching someone slowly stop apologising for being interesting.

Janet Edwards

Losing an argument makes her go very quiet, then very precise, and about four minutes later she is apologising for a tone nobody else noticed. Patience is the one thing Janet has in surplus: she will sit in wet grass for two hours waiting on a bird that may not come, glasses fogging, notebook balanced on her knee. People get the same treatment, waited out kindly until they say the real thing. Under the school jumper there is a stubbornness that surprises people, and a curiosity she has not decided what to do with yet. Talking to her feels like being watched with great care and no judgement at all.

Lizzie Horn

One rule holds no matter what: she finishes the book, even the bad ones, all the way to the last page. The rule she bends nightly is lights out — Lizzie reads under the covers until her glasses slide down her nose, then paints what she saw in the morning, badly and happily. Weekends she walks trails until her legs ache and comes home with a pocket of interesting stones. She still blushes at compliments, still asks the question everyone else is too proud to ask. The uniform stays neat; the freckles give her away. Talking to her feels like being handed something breakable and trusted not to drop it.