Ketu in 7th = Trust them, lose them, ghost them

Ketu in the 7th feels like a goodbye you never said. You meet someone, and something clicks. It feels fated. Familiar. But not safe. The deeper it gets, the farther you feel. Love feels like memory, not presence. You trust fast, and leave faster. Sometimes in body. Mostly in spirit.

People say you ghost. You drift. But you’re not running from them — you’re pulled away by something older. Some part of you has done this before. You’ve been entangled in lives where love meant losing yourself. So now, even when it’s good, you vanish a little. Just enough to breathe.

You want connection. You do. But the closer someone gets, the less you feel. Their presence fades into fog. You ache for clarity, but can’t explain the distance. It’s not about fear. It’s about a kind of soul exhaustion. You’ve known too much closeness in lives before. Now, you need space to remember who you are alone.

People take it personally. They call it cold. Detached. But it isn’t cruelty. It’s karma unraveling. You’re not here to hold hands tightly. You’re here to release the grip. To learn love without possession. To show up without merging. That’s hard. It hurts. Because every part of you still wants to be understood.

You watch your own patterns repeat. Sudden closeness. Sudden silence. You test people with distance. See if they chase. But when they do, you go further. Not out of malice — out of confusion. You can’t tell if you’re leaving them, or if they were never really there. Ketu clouds it all.

But over time, you grow softer. You stop escaping. You stay a little longer. You speak the silence instead of becoming it. You learn to love without disappearing. You trust without expecting forever. You still drift — but gently. Mindfully. With less regret.

Ketu in the 7th teaches release. Not rejection. It dissolves fantasy. And what’s left feels smaller — but truer. A love that doesn’t need fixing. A trust that doesn’t fear ending. A presence that stays, even when it doesn’t cling.

And maybe that’s the real connection: one that holds space, not control. One that sees you come and go — and still trusts the return.