There is a photograph of you somewhere that does not match the face in the mirror, and both of them are yours. People describe you back to you and you barely recognize the portrait, because each one met a slightly different person. You were born with Neptune in the first house, the house of the body and the first impression you make, so your outline arrives a little blurred. One friend swears you are quiet. Another insists you are the loud one. They are not wrong; you take the temperature of a room and become weather inside it, often before you have decided to. That softness is also why strangers tell you things on trains. What costs you is the drift, the slow forgetting of which face was actually yours when there was no room to mirror. It helps to say your own name out loud sometimes, to wear something with a clear edge, to photograph yourself on purpose. Your shape gets to stay yours even when someone needs you to be someone else.