You ghost like it’s written in your 8th

You ghost like it’s written there. The eighth house pulls you inward. It whispers endings before they arrive. Silence is your first instinct. You vanish instead of explaining. Depth scares you more than distance. It’s not cold—it’s protective space. You don’t let everyone in. And when you do, it burns. You feel too much, too fast. So you go without goodbye. A quiet exit feels safer. Words feel too weak for this.

The eighth house speaks in silence. It rules death, rebirth, control, fear. It demands truth or complete retreat. Nothing shallow survives its pull. You sense endings before they bloom. When energy shifts, you disappear. Not out of cruelty—out of need. You mourn while they still speak. Ghosting becomes a kind of ritual. Not a break, but a burial. You walk away to survive it.

If Venus or Mercury lives here, love becomes tangled with fear. Communication feels like exposure, risk. You long for connection, then hide. You want depth, but fear drowning. So you leave to breathe again. You crave soul ties, then sever. Not because they meant nothing—because they meant too much.

This isn’t about disappearing carelessly. It’s about survival through withdrawal. About protecting the parts still healing. The eighth house demands transformation always. In silence, you begin shedding skin. In absence, you reclaim your name. You ghost because it’s written there. Because endings are how you begin.