What you have at the entrance looks less like a door than a curtain of water. People walk up and aren't quite sure whether they've already entered or are still outside, whether they met you at the first encounter or will have to come back three times to catch you whole. You came into the world with Pisces rising, and your first contact arrives blurred by design, with a softness that wraps around the person, with a gaze that seems to know things about them they haven't told you yet. Jupiter and Neptune, the planets that run your Rising, don't dissolve you. They're teaching you that your way of appearing is permeable, that you take in the mood of a room before you've said hello, that your welcome is more temperature than word. People feel accepted near you without knowing why. What others read as vagueness is, in you, a doorway wide enough that no one has to announce themselves to come through. The real trap isn't the confusion they accuse you of. It's that a threshold this open can forget it's a threshold at all, until every visitor who walks the curtain of water reshapes the house you were standing in before they arrived. The curtain can be water and still mark a threshold. So learn to hold a form without hardening, and once a day, name out loud one thing in the room that's yours and not the water's.