“You know,” my former colleague confessed, “you don’t really act like a Gemini.”

It was May 2018, and my coworkers had roped me into after-work drinks at a Hell’s Kitchen gay bar in honor of my 22nd birthday. I’d grown particularly close to this colleague. In a team of mostly cisgender gay men, the two of us stuck out. We quickly bonded over shared interests our male coworkers couldn’t possibly understand: Janelle Monáe’s Dirty Computer, vibrators that look like necklaces, and of course, astrology.

I’d barely dipped my toes into the intimidatingly vast ocean of astrological study; by comparison, my colleague had the technical astro knowledge of a deep-sea diver. So when she offered to pull up my birth chart after a tequila soda or two, I nearly leapt out of my seat with enthusiasm. She proceeded to show me a circular wheel covered in strange glyphs and explained everything from my Rising sign to my misunderstood Sun in the 12th House. I ditched the hard stuff for water and listened as closely as I could, desperate to commit her cosmic wisdom to memory.

In that dimly lit bar, my world tilted on its axis.