One foot is already out the door toward the bigger thing while the floor under you asks you to stay and put down roots. Your Part of Fortune, a sect-dependent point your chart calculates, throws a square to Jupiter, two pulls dragging against each other from different rooms: what thrives in you wants to settle, the promise wants to launch. You have paid for this. You inflated plans over ground that just wanted tending, reached for more exactly where you were already enough. What the friction leaves behind is a private skepticism that no longer hands out excess for free. Every time ambition outran what already sufficed, it laid another course in the wall your contentment now stands on.