Once upon a cracked constellation, a witch made of honey met a thief made of fire.
The witch moved like smoke, soft-spoken but spell-laced, with a Scorpio moon behind her eyes. The thief walked like she owned the stars — Sun in Leo, all blaze and bravado, leaving golden fingerprints on everything she touched.
They weren’t meant to meet, not by maps or mortals. But fate doesn’t care for rules — especially not when it’s bored. And so, they collided in the quiet between two disasters, like a song too old to be remembered but too sacred to forget.
She — the witch — had built her life like a spell: carefully, secretly, with rooms no one entered.
She — the thief — kicked in the doors and laughed at the ghosts.
And the ghosts, oddly, laughed back.
The witch saw in the thief a hunger she knew well — not for chaos, but for meaning.
The thief saw in the witch a softness that wasn’t weak, but ancient — the kind that could ruin you slowly, with kindness and a look that knew everything.
They kissed like people remembering the language of their last life.
They fought like two storms in the same sky.
They forgave like gods trying to become human.
In their love lived Pluto — deep, dark, transformational.
In their fears stood Saturn — stern, slow, testing.
In their hearts burned Lilith — wild, exiled, defiant.
They didn’t always get it right.
One pulled away when it got too deep.
The other stayed too long in her own sorrow.
But still —
they chose each other, over and over,
like a prayer said with shaking hands.
Not because it was easy.
But because it was real.
Because in each other’s ruin,
they found reason to rise.
And though the stars may shift and the gods grow silent,
these two —
mirror and flame —
have already been written in the sky.