The pain in my chest has become quiet enough to ignore if I am doing something equally miserable.
Conveniently, I am in the gym as I make that distinction.
It is barely light outside, and the windows are still black, reflecting the rows of equipment back at us. Owen is on the bench beside mine, lifting with the grim, steady focus of someone who considers the day wasted if his muscles aren't aching before breakfast.
"You're quieter," he says.
I lower the bar back into place and sit up on the bench.
"Am I?"
"Unfortunately, not in general. Just about the romantic apocalypse," Owen says, racking his bar and sitting up too.
I give him a look.
"It's a working title," he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Work on it less," I suggest with a slight shake of my head.
"Fine," he says
