There’s a quiet kind of devotion that never makes it into horoscopes. It lives in the way he circles back to the topic you changed because your voice shook, in how he notices you withdrawing before you even name it. It’s in the apology he offers without being cornered, the way he chooses repair over winning, and understanding over ego.

He isn’t your future because of the season he arrived in, but because of the man he keeps choosing to be. Birth months can write myths, but they can’t hold you at 3 a.m., can’t remember how you take your coffee, can’t meet you in the raw, unedited parts of your life. The real miracle is simpler and rarer: he wakes up, every ordinary day, and loves you on purpose. That’s what forever is made of.