A beat of silence before you answer, long enough that people lean in to check you heard them. You were born with Saturn in your third house, the house of speech and the daily errands of the mind, the talk between siblings and the words you trade on your own street. Your thinking outruns your saying by a wide margin, and every word you do let out has been weighed twice on the way to your mouth. People who clock you as slow because you talk less than they do tend to get quietly corrected later, when the one sentence you finally say reframes the whole conversation. Trouble is, the weighing never has to stop, and you can edit yourself into total silence, leaving the room with the worse argument simply because it spoke. Send the message you keep drafting. Raise your hand while the moment is still warm. A voice held in reserve that lands one line a room repeats for years is worth far more than a voice that empties itself by noon.