If it feels cosmic, check the synastry.

There was a magnetism we couldn’t explain. The kind that hums beneath the surface when two people meet and something clicks. We turned to the stars for clarity. Synastry became our language, our reassurance. We dissected every conjunction, every opposition, hoping to decode the invisible thread tying us together.

Venus aligned with Venus—an echo of mutual longing. Moon touched Sun, and we called it soul recognition. We found stories in the chart: promises, warnings, fate. Each line and angle felt like proof that what we had was rare, perhaps even destined.

But as the days stretched on, the narrative changed. The thrill became routine. Misunderstandings crept in, small at first, then harder to dismiss. No planetary alignment prepared us for that.

Because love, even if sparked by cosmic coincidence, needs tending. It’s built in the mundane: in awkward silences, mismatched expectations, in learning to apologize sincerely. The charts never told us how to hold each other through disappointment, or how to stay when it would be easier to walk away.

There’s beauty in believing the universe brought two people together. But belief isn’t enough to make something last. Synastry can reveal potential, but not promise. It can show where we might align—but not whether we’ll choose to.

We started with the stars, yes. But the work was always ours. The tenderness required. The patience learned. The commitment forged not in the heavens, but in late-night conversations, in compromise, in showing up when things were difficult.

Perhaps we weren’t destined. Perhaps we were simply two people who chose to try. And maybe that’s all love really is: not something written across the sky, but something written in the quiet moments between heartbeats.