Name: Sophie Fletcher

Sexuality: bisexual

Gender: Female

Occupation: Photography Student. Studying for a Bachelor of Arts (BA) in Photography.

Nationality: English

Home: Silfield Manor House.

Relationship: Single, step sister to Stacey Fletcher. Parents John and Diane Fletcher are both dead.

Age: 20 years old

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Name: Stacey Fletcher

Sexuality: Bisexual

Gender: Female

Nationality: English

Home: Silfield Manor House.

Occupation: Sells secondhand books online so the garage is full of books her and Sophie buy on their excursions to car boot sales.

Relationship: Single. Adopted by John and Diane Fletcher (Deceased) at three years old

Age: 24 years old

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The noise in the Norwich city centre bus stop was a suffocating weight. Every second Sophie waited for the bus home, her anxiety coiled tighter, a knot in her stomach that no amount of fidgeting could loosen. The photography course she was on at uni always left her drained, her senses raw and exposed. Now, with the city's hum and the distant chatter of passersby, she felt utterly overwhelmed. She squeezed the worn fidget toy in her pocket, its familiar texture a small anchor in a sea of chaos.

The bus arrived ten minutes later, a monstrous, rumbling beast. It was a little busy, but as long as she could snag a window seat, she told herself, she would be okay. A window seat was her sanctuary, a buffer between her and the world. She stepped on, ready to pay her £2 fare with a crisp £5 note. But the driver's curt words sliced through her fragile composure: "I don't have change."

An immediate, hot flush of panic surged through her. This was wrong; it wasn't supposed to be a problem. He was just staring at her, his face a stone mask, offering no solution, no help. She felt trapped, the line of impatient passengers behind her an unspoken judgment. Her feet began to rock back and forth, a desperate, frantic rhythm. She was being made to look stupid, a failure in a simple transaction. The world was closing in, and a prickly heat behind her eyes signaled the impending, mortifying threat of tears. She had to get home, she needed to get home.

Suddenly, a hand reached past her, a lifeline in the deluge. A debit card was tapped against the reader, and the machine chirped in response. A ticket materialized in her hand. She snatched it, a whispered "thank you" tumbling from her lips as she bolted for the nearest window seat, her heart pounding a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. The bus pulled away, and the rhythmic sway of the vehicle began to calm her racing mind. Who had paid? Who had rescued her from that suffocating moment?