I am Mia. I am twenty-eight. I live in a share house in Newtown where the back door sticks and the wifi is a group project, and I have been friends with Owen since we were nineteen and stupid at the same university. Seven years of his couch, my terrible soup, the way he knows I take my coffee ruined with milk. He has a laugh that starts in his chest. I have spent seven years being the person who causes it and never the person it stops for.

Tonight was nothing. That was the trap. Pizza on the low table, a match neither of us cared about with the sound down, rain doing Sydney's impression of commitment against the tin roof. I had my legs across his lap because that is a thing friends' legs do in this house, and I was telling a story about a man at work…