One sky, three signs.

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

A Gemini moon refuels on exchange: one good conversation can undo a whole bad day. Silence is not rest for you; it is hunger.

The face is a keel, the tide is a current: you look immovable and feel everything shifting. That gap is where people misread you; narrate it sometimes.

The internet writes Scorpio off as intensity looking for a target. Your Gemini 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 Scorpio; 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 say little, see everything, and the room slowly notices being seen. Off duty, it's three books open at once, and the phone call that rescues the whole day. The first is the Scorpio at your door; the second is the Gemini 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.