Mercury afflicted? You hear lies in every text

You read a message. Then you read it again. The words are clear, but they don’t feel right. Something’s off. Too short. Too delayed. Too polite. Your chest tightens. Mercury’s afflicted in your chart — and it shows. You don’t just hear the message. You hear what’s beneath it. What might be missing. What they’re not saying out loud.

You learned to listen this way. To stay alert. To catch the shift before it drops. A missed reply isn’t just silence — it’s danger. It means something. Doesn’t it? Maybe they’re lying. Or maybe they’re slipping away. So you check the tone. The punctuation. The time stamp. You collect clues. You spiral quietly.

You don’t want to. But your mind doesn’t rest. Mercury here turns language into a puzzle. The logic tangles. Meaning flickers. You ask for the truth, but don’t believe it when it comes. You think too fast. Feel too much. Words become weapons, even when softly spoken. You remember them for years. You weigh every sentence long after the moment’s passed.

Sometimes you pull away. Not because you don’t care — but because caring hurts. It’s exhausting to decode everything. To guess instead of know. You wish it were easier. That people just meant what they said. But you don’t trust it. Not right away. You need time. Reassurance. Proof. Not just once — every time.

Still, there’s depth in you. You don’t speak just to fill the space. You speak when it matters. And you hear what others don’t. You catch the breath between words. The weight behind silence. You feel truth in the gaps. But it’s heavy. And lonely. You carry so much of what’s unsaid.

Eventually, you learn to pause. To ask instead of assume. You notice the story you’re building — and gently rewrite it. You speak your doubt out loud. You practice trusting what’s in front of you, not what fear fills in. It’s not perfect. But it’s honest. And that’s what heals you.

With time, Mercury softens. It stops shouting inside your head. You don’t need constant clarity to feel safe. Just presence. Just care. You still read between the lines — but now, you leave space for grace. For quiet. For the chance that maybe, this time, they meant exactly what they said.