Both your birthdays, two minutes. I read him from his chart — then I hand you your next move. Not "just give him space." The actual move.
You rate every reading as I go. If the first thing I tell you about you is wrong, close the tab — you'll know in thirty seconds whether I'm real.
When he goes quiet, when he pulls back, when he says the thing that lands wrong — it isn't strategy. It's a pattern he can't even name. So you fill the silence with the worst version of it, and you're both guessing. I've read enough men to know how it goes: they don't look in unless something forces them to.
He doesn't know what's moving in him.
His chart does.
And I read the chart.
Stop guessing. There's an actual answer in there.
Anyone can say "he's scared of getting hurt." That's worthless to you at 2am. I tell you the thing to say that lands, the thing to not say that wrecks it, and the window when he's actually reachable — timing included.
You leave with a move. Not a mood.
I read him — his exact birth date, time, and place. That's why what I tell you is about your man, not "Scorpios." The chart doesn't flatter you and it doesn't soften it. It tells me what's actually there, in him and in the two of you — and then I tell you, straight.
And I won't get tired of the question. Your friends mean well, but somewhere in there they started wanting you to be over it. I don't. Bring it to me for the hundredth time and I'll read it fresh.
I can't read the moment until I know how you're both built. The first two minutes give me your charts. After that, the conversation is yours.