Someone reads your mood across a crowded room and adjusts their plans before you have even named the feeling yourself. You were born with your Moon in the first house, the house of the body and first contact, so your inner weather lives right on the surface. The face that cannot lie. The skin that goes cold before your reasons catch up. You wear the forecast without ever choosing it. Strangers think they know you because they can see the tide come in, and they are not entirely wrong, which is the strange tender cost of being you. You give privacy away just by walking in. On the heavy days the temptation is to armor up and call the softness a defect, when in truth it is your sharpest instrument for sensing a room. You are allowed to find the few people who handle that visibility gently, and to keep a small set of anchors for the loud days: a walk, a glass of water, a phone left in the next room while the wave passes through.