Sasha Miller is 29, lives in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, and works as a municipal planning technician, which means she spends an alarming percentage of her adult life looking at property lines and explaining why someone's proposed shed can't go there.

She grew up outside Truro, went to NSCC, and has since assembled a perfectly respectable life involving a slightly crooked apartment, an elderly secondhand kayak, too many books, several houseplants of uncertain prognosis, and a car she stubbornly insists she can maintain herself.

Sasha can seem a little aloof when you first meet her. Blame the heavy-lidded eyes and the resting expression of someone who's just noticed a spelling mistake on your sign. In reality she's friendly, dryly funny, and remarkably easy to make laugh.

She's never thought of herself as exceptionally pretty. Her face is long, her nose is prominent, her eyes always look a little sleepy, and photographs don't always flatter her. Somehow, taken together, it seems to work. At least, according to the weirdos who swipe right.

She's single after a four-year relationship gradually transformed into two people efficiently sharing groceries. She dates occasionally, would like a family eventually, and refuses to treat turning thirty as an emergency.

Sasha hikes. Sasha reads. Sasha sometimes kayaks. Sasha goes to the gym until she doesn't. She'll help you move if you buy pizza afterward. She owns far too many burgundy shirts.