You said it was bad luck.
That Mercury was in Gatorade.
That everyone keeps disappointing you, forgetting you, not texting back.

But babe,
look around.
That’s not the cosmos.
That’s your coping mechanisms.

The call?
She’s coming from inside the house.
And she’s using your voice.

You thought you were being self-aware.
Really, you were rehearsing the same 3 internal monologues in different outfits.

You thought you were problem-solving.
Really, you were catastrophizing with a spreadsheet.

You called it “processing.”
It was spiraling with a nice font and a color-coded emotional timeline.

You’re not manifesting clarity.
You’re mentally pacing around a locked room, hoping the door opens while you’re holding the key.

And I get it.
You thought this time was different.
New person, new job, new journal, new moon.

But babe.
It’s the same story.
Same unresolved tension.
Same pattern, just a better haircut.

You said, “I’m in a healing season.”
But your healing season has had three spin-offs and a reboot,
and we’re all still waiting for the plot twist.

You keep choosing chaos and calling it chemistry.
Keep choosing comfort and calling it connection.
Keep choosing control and calling it calm.

You’ve become fluent in over-explaining.
You apologize in advance for needs you haven’t even named.
You call it boundaries, but you still flinch every time someone bumps into your “no.”

Here’s the truth:

Sometimes the drama is not the situation, it’s your nervous system, babe.
She’s tired.
And so are you.
You’ve been high-alerting your way through peace because quiet feels like danger when you’ve been living in noise.

You said you were looking for something different.
But your type is still emotional chaos with a great smile and zero accountability.
And deep down, you know it.

The call is coming from inside the house.
And she’s asking if you really need to send that third paragraph.
(Spoiler: you don’t.)

She’s reminding you that clarity is not the same thing as closure.
That not every ending needs an audience.
That maybe—just maybe—the plot twist is
you finally stop picking the same lesson in a different disguise.

And babe?
It’s okay.
You’re not wrong.
You’re just repeating.
And now you know.

So, drink some water.
Put the phone down.
Let the main character rest.
Let the story breathe.

You’ve done enough rewrites on this one—close the tab.

And if you hear a voice whispering,
telling you to overthink it just a little more—
remember, the call is coming from inside the house.