Duty presses you to stand firm while an old wound buckles under the weight, the two pressing against each other down your spine. They meet at ninety degrees in your chart: the centaur guards a hurt that needs softness, the taskmaster demands structure and endurance, and carrying both at once wears at you daily. You have learned to keep your responsibilities with the ache still live, something sturdier people never had to test. That hard, slow-built reliability is no inheritance. The authority others lean on in you was set brick by brick, in the exact strain between what hurt and what you still had to hold upright.
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