One sky, three signs.

You know what everyone in the room is feeling and would rather discuss almost anything else.

A Libra moon refuels on harmony you can hear: beauty, fairness, a room with no live argument in it. Discord costs you double what it costs the others.

You start in public and start in private: a life of first chapters, inside and out. Endings are a skill to hire, or to marry.

The internet writes Cancer off as a mood with legs. Your Libra moon rewrites the chemistry: the needs underneath are narrated, argued, and footnoted. What looks like feeling less is thinking about feeling, at length, in private. You are not a typical Cancer; nobody with this moon is.

People lower their voices around you, as if you already know. The mask matches the face; what they meet at the door is what lives in the house.

In a room, you match the room's weather so well nobody can say when you arrived. Off duty, it's the playlist tuned for company, and the question 'what do you want?' asked twice as often as answered. The first is the Pisces at your door; the second is the Libra that lives in the house.

You enter like the tide and think like the wind. People expect your depths and meet your commentary first; both are you.

Two parts Water, one part Air, and the Air sits in your moon. The minority voice is why parliaments work: when the water consensus feels too easy, that is the vote to consult.

A field guide, for whoever keeps trying: Come in soft; this door feels you before it hears you. Once inside, give the conversation that doesn't check its watch: love here arrives through the ear. Send it to the ones who knock.

Feed the moon first: say the inner weather out loud, to one person or one page. Unspoken it becomes static; spoken it becomes weather you can fly in.