I don’t believe in astrology. I don’t care if you’re a Scorpio or a Gemini or whatever sign is supposed to ruin my life this week. The stars don’t write our stories we do. And yet Some things about a Virgo stand true. Like the way I double-check my words before I send them, like the way my mind is a never-ending to-do list, like the way my heartbeat stutters when things slip out of my control. I am not my zodiac sign. It doesn’t tell you the way I love, the way I crack a joke to hide the panic, the way I can hold a room together while falling apart inside. And yet, if you put me and Virgo in the same room, she might be stardust all mystery, all glow, a constellation only visible at the right time, at the right angle. And I might be flesh and bone, breathing too fast, overthinking too much, a mind that never slows down even when the world begs me to rest. We are not the same, but somehow, we are. Not because of the stars, but because we carry the weight of the world and still find a way to stand.