A photograph lying face down in a drawer you have not opened in two years, kept because throwing it out would feel like a second loss. You were born with your Moon in the eighth house, the locked drawer of the chart, the house of thresholds and shared depths and what a family hands down in secret, so your feelings run far below the daylight ones. Bodies that merge. Grief inherited from people you never met. The one truth only you and one other person hold between you. You feel what a room is refusing to say out loud, and that reading is both a real gift and a standing hazard, because what you pick up does not always stay neatly labeled as someone else's. So learn, slowly, the line between feeling with a person and dissolving into their weather. Set down what was never yours to carry. Find somewhere steady to discharge what you absorb before it sits and ferments: a therapist, a notebook nobody reads, a long walk with one trusted voice. Your sensitivity is a fine and serious instrument, and it asks for two things, regular maintenance and a clear say in who gets to play it.