Shatabhisha + Ardra = stormy skies, zero rainbows.

You meet under strange, restless skies. It feels intense. Feels like fate. But the comfort never truly comes. Shatabhisha and Ardra bring cold storms. There’s a pull, but no peace. The connection forms through shared wounds. You speak. They vanish. You wait. They return, but something feels gone. The warmth you need stays missing. You try harder. They grow colder. You feel seen, but not safe. It’s like touching glass, not skin.

Ardra cries loud. Shatabhisha hides deep. Both want healing. Neither knows how. They talk in fragments, not meaning. They listen, but don’t really hear. One wants closeness. The other disappears. Both hurt. Both hope. Both spiral. Words become weapons. Silences stretch longer. The bond stays heavy, not grounding. It feels karmic, but unclear why. You think love should fix things. Instead, it reveals what’s broken. They hold mirrors, not hands. You chase calm. They chase escape. Nothing stays steady, though you try. Intimacy feels like walking on shards. You crave answers. They offer riddles. You open up. They shut down. Still, you stay. Still, they linger. You confuse pain for passion again. You call it deep, but it’s chaos. You mistake the wound for soul. You think it’s growth. It’s just grief. They aren’t your home—just familiar. You see yourself in their distance. You recognize their sadness as yours. It all feels too known. Too much. Too fast. Too empty. You tell yourself it’s transformation. But it’s erosion. Your energy fades slowly. You lose voice trying to explain. You bend. They vanish. You ache. They numb. You still believe it could work. But love shouldn’t feel like drowning. Shouldn’t need constant rescue or repair. This isn’t soul-deep—it’s storm-deep. And storms don’t build homes. They break illusions. And clear old patterns. Maybe that’s what this was for. Not to stay, but to end. Not to love, but to learn. To see your reflection, clearly. To feel your loneliness, fully.

To understand craving isn’t connection. That intensity isn’t the same as intimacy. That silence isn’t mystery, but absence. That waiting isn’t romantic. It’s loss. You remember who you were before. You gather what’s left behind gently. You stop needing their chaos to feel. You stop chasing the high of ache. You begin to crave calm again. Not magic. Not drama. Just peace. And someday, the storm clears quietly. You stop looking back for meaning. You stop calling it love. You start calling it awakening. What felt destined was just a cycle. What felt rare was your reflection. Some bonds burn to teach you. And that’s all this was meant for. Not forever. Just a storm passing through.