You loved them because your chart said so.

We once traced our love in the sky, believing the planets conspired in our favor. Mercury in sync, Mars in trine—we thought the universe nodded in approval. It felt easier, safer, to trust the stars than to trust ourselves. Symbols replaced conversation. Aspects stood in for effort.

But time wore away the glow of destiny. The warmth between us cooled, not with catastrophe, but with silence. We mistook compatibility for connection. We leaned on charts to explain closeness, then distance. Slowly, the myth unraveled. We had expected the heavens to hold us together, but they offered no shelter when the storms came.

There were no cosmic answers for the mundane struggles—miscommunication, fear, unmet needs. No planet explained the drift between us. The astrology that once seemed like a mirror began to feel like a veil, softening the hard edges of reality.

We began to see each other not as archetypes, but as people—flawed, uncertain, evolving. We stopped asking what the full moon might mean for our love and started asking each other how we really felt. Love, it turned out, wasn’t written anywhere. It had to be created, sustained, questioned, and redefined.

It was in the way we tried again after failing. In late-night talks where no retrograde was blamed. In the recognition that we chose each other, not once, but over and over—despite disappointments, not because of predictions.

Maybe the stars were never dishonest. Maybe they were just symbols—beautiful, but mute. And maybe that’s enough. To find poetry in the sky but meaning in each other.

In the end, love isn’t about alignment. It’s about presence. Not fate, but effort. Not signs, but seeing. And in that choice, daily and deliberate, we found something real.