Not ghosted—just a bad Mercury transit.

A sudden quiet. No reply. A presence once constant now vanished. The mind scrambles for meaning. Mercury’s in retrograde—of course. The timing aligns too well. Missed messages, crossed wires, emotional static. It’s almost poetic. Easy, even. A planetary scapegoat for an ache we didn’t see coming.

Astrology slides in with an explanation: miscommunication, delays, emotional reversals. We latch onto it, desperate for something to soften the sting. Maybe they’ll reach out when the retrograde ends. Maybe this isn’t rejection, just poor timing wrapped in planetary turbulence.

But then days pass. Weeks. Still no message. Still no closure.

At some point, the orbiting stops feeling relevant. The stars keep moving, but nothing changes here on Earth. That cosmic story begins to feel like a veil, stretched thin over a much sharper reality: they chose not to respond.

Maybe it wasn’t Mercury. Maybe it was discomfort, uncertainty, or disinterest. Maybe it was never that deep. The silence might have nothing to do with a misaligned sky and everything to do with emotional avoidance.

It’s tempting to seek symbolic meaning in absence. But sometimes, there’s none. Sometimes people disappear because they don’t know how to stay, or don’t want to. That’s not astrology—it’s human.

Astrology can be a mirror, but it’s not a shield. It can’t protect us from disappointment. It can’t force someone to show up, to explain, to care.

We’re left with the truth: the silence wasn’t planetary. It was personal. And healing, as much as we’d like it to be cosmic, must be personal too.

In the end, the stars may light the sky, but they don’t answer messages. People do. Or they don’t. And when they don’t, we learn to listen to that silence, and move forward without waiting for Mercury to turn direct.