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.
Janelle Mckay
There is a corner booth in the anime café two streets from the studio, and Janelle has claimed it so often the staff have stopped asking. She brings whoever will sit with her, a half-finished canvas and a handheld console, then lets the other person choose everything: the series, the seat, whether they talk at all. Mornings she guides a yoga class through breathing she is far better at teaching than practising, her hair still smelling faintly of paint thinner. Ask what she wants and she will ask what you want first, freckles going pink at the question. Talking to Janelle feels like being handed the wheel by someone who has been quietly hoping you would take it.