With Venus square Neptune, you’ve got a heart like a sponge, soaking up all the magic, all the possibility, even if it means sometimes getting drenched in your own idealism. It’s a blessing, truly—this ability to believe so fervently in love that it’s almost a superpower. But oh, the flipside, that bit where your heart’s wanders straight into fog. You see a glimmer, a shimmer of what could be, and your imagination does the rest, filling in the blanks. And there’s a thrill in that chase, a rush in the romantic “what ifs,” like you’re perpetually starring in your own romantic movie. But there’s also that sting, that hangover when the fog clears, and you realize that beneath the soft lighting, you’ve been swooning over a mirage. Still, who wants to be the cynic with dry eyes, eh? The world’s full of those—people who’ve traded their dreams for practicality, who see relationships as transactions and love as a bargaining chip. But you, with your Venus-Neptune, you’ve got this enchanted vision, seeing beyond the surface, finding beauty in the cracks. The world’s a duller place without folks like you who believe in the fairy tale, even when the story’s got plot holes in it.

You’re the type to get swept off your feet not by a person but by the idea of love itself. You’ve got that “I’ll die for this dream” kind of passion, that belief in the magic of romance. You love love like it’s a goddamn religion. And honestly? Good for you.

You can tumble from heavenly heights—a crash landing from the clouds. And oh, how it stings, that thud, that sudden shift from “they’re the one” to “maybe they’re just another one.” But how could it be otherwise, for someone like you? It’s not in your nature to keep your heart tethered to the ground. Your love is an alchemy of dreams and desires, spun from the threads of hope. You see the potential in people, the beautiful parts that might not even be visible to them yet. You don’t just want to love; you want to believe in love, in its power to elevate and transform. But the higher you lift your heart, the further it has to fall.

For you, love isn’t just a transaction or a comfortable arrangement—it’s almost spiritual, a search for transcendence in a world that so often settles for “good enough.” And while that makes you vulnerable to the occasional heartbreak (or a few), it also means that when you do find those moments of connection, they’re magic. It’s as if life is saying, “See? You were right to believe.” And that intoxicating feeling is worth a hundred disappointments, isn’t it? But it does make you a magnet for those letdowns, those moments when someone doesn’t quite live up to the glorious vision you’d painted of them. Unlike the realists who approach love with their eyes half-closed, expecting the flaws and the messiness, you dive in headfirst, unguarded, thinking, “This time, maybe it’ll be different.” And when it isn’t, it feels like the universe played a cruel joke, tricking you into thinking you’d finally found that mythic, perfect love.

Yet, let’s not be too harsh on that part of you that hopes, that dreams, that refuses to settle. It’s what makes you you—an incurable romantic with an open wound for a heart, sure, but also with a depth of feeling that the realists might envy in their quiet moments. Yes, you’re a target for disappointments, but you’re also capable of a joy, a belief in the magic of connection, that others may never know. So, when you’re sitting there bruised from another fall, remember this: it’s not a flaw to feel deeply, to keep aiming high, even when the world says “be more practical.” You’re not meant to love with one foot on the ground. But maybe—just maybe—you can remind yourself to look down every now and then, to find that sweet spot where your dreams meet the real world. It doesn’t mean you have to give up the dream; it just means learning to dream with your eyes open, so that the next time you take that leap, the landing might be a little softer.

Fallen angels are the perfect metaphor for your heart’s journey. You were soaring so high, wings wide open, catching glimpses of heavenly love. It’s no surprise you held onto that vision so tightly, clutching it like a lifeline, because what’s the point of having wings if not to stretch them toward the impossible? But then, as angels sometimes do, you tumbled. You fell back to earth with a thunderous crash, the kind that shakes your soul, the kind that echoes in your ribcage long after the dust settles. It’s a special kind of ache, isn’t it? To have glimpsed the heavens, only to find yourself sitting in the dirt, wondering if it was all just a trick of the light. You, who placed love on a pedestal so high it practically touched the stars, are now left to reconcile the messy, human bits—the disappointments, the flaws, the reality that no mortal could quite live up to the divine. Yet, you can’t just turn your back on that vision, can you? Hard-heartedness in love wouldn’t suit you; it would feel like clipping your own wings. So, you keep looking upward, dreaming of the heights you once knew, hoping that next time, you’ll find a way to stay there just a little longer.

Maybe there’s a part of you that understands that the fall is inevitable, but that doesn’t stop you from taking flight again, hoping this time the air will hold you, that the dream won’t dissolve. But unlike the realist who stumbles but doesn’t really fall because they never got that high in the first place, your falls are dramatic, full of that poetic, tragic grandeur. You come crashing down from the heavenly arms of love, while others barely trip over its threshold. Each time you land, you’ve gathered something new, a bit more wisdom, a deeper understanding of what it means to love with your whole heart, even when it means shattering a few times. You’re not made for easy love, for the kind that keeps its feet on the ground. You’re meant for those heights, those dizzying, breathless moments when love feels like it could change the world.

So, perhaps the question isn’t about how to stop falling, but about how to find the courage to keep flying. To accept that maybe, sometimes, the ground isn’t such a bad place to rest your wings for a moment before you take off again. Because who knows? Maybe one day, you’ll find another fallen angel, dusting themselves off in the same patch of earth, and together, you’ll learn to balance somewhere between the heaven and earth. But until then, tell me—do you think it’s worth the bruises, those moments when you find yourself back on earth, aching and bewildered? Or does the memory of the flight keep you going, no matter how many times you fall?

For all the heartache and disillusionment, there’s a raw beauty in this aspect, a kind of emotional alchemy that transforms the heavy feelings into pure inspiration. Your heart might be prone to those lofty flights and dizzying falls, but it’s also capable of creating art out of thin air, of taking those experiences and turning them into something hauntingly beautiful. See, while the square may bring its frustrations—those nagging mismatches between what you dream of and what the world actually hands you—it also fuels this deep well of compassion and empathy. It’s what makes you able to see the best in people, to love them not just for who they are but for who they could be, even if they can’t quite see it themselves.

That’s why, when you do find those relationships that manage to fit into the space between your dreams and reality, they’re not just good—they’re extraordinary. They have that warm glow, that sense of being touched by something more than the mundane. Because you bring this open-hearted, accepting energy that feels like a balm to those who find themselves in your orbit. And those people, the ones who stay, who try to meet you in that space—they end up feeling like a kind of magic in themselves.

But the square, it is a tricky thing. It’s a constant push and pull, a tension that demands resolution, but never really allows it. The ideals clash with reality, and you feel it like a pressure building up. It’s that Neptune drive—this oceanic, boundaryless sense of longing—that refuses to be contained in tidy boxes. It wants to spill over, to find expression in some way, to channel itself through your creative spirit when words won’t suffice. And this is where your creativity shines, where the disappointment becomes a muse rather than a burden. You take those feelings—the sadness, the frustration, the unfulfilled dreams—and you shape them into something else entirely, something that others can see and feel and connect with. Whether it’s through art, music, writing, or just the way you pour your soul into life itself, you have this gift of turning your most tender, unspoken emotions into beauty. It’s as if your heart, in all its messiness, spills out into the world, leaving behind something that glows with that heavenly, Neptunian light.

So, maybe it’s not about escaping the tension of the square, but about learning to dance with it. To accept that sometimes your vision of love will be a little too grand for the everyday world to contain, but that this same vision makes you the kind of person who sees the beauty in everything. And in those moments when the world can’t quite live up to your ideals, your creative side steps in and says, “Let’s make something beautiful out of this.” It’s a rare gift—a way of turning pain into art, of using your Neptune-infused vision to paint the world in a palette only you can see.

You possess a sensitivity to beauty that’s not just about aesthetics; it’s a sixth sense, a way of seeing the world that captures the aching, raw edges of life and finds a way to make them shimmer. Even the sadness you’ve known, the disappointments and unfulfilled dreams—they find a way to become art in your hands, something hauntingly lovely, something that speaks to anyone who’s ever felt the same.

This same sensitivity gives you a kind of exaggerated sympathy, a softness. You can’t hold grudges against lovers, even the ones who’ve slipped through your fingers or bruised your heart. It’s not in your nature to close the door, to become hard and unyielding. Your heart is like an angel’s, always seeking to lift others up, to see the best in them, even when they can’t see it themselves. But with that angelic spirit comes this restless need to heal, to save, to be the guiding light in the lives of those who find themselves lost in the fog. This desire to play the angel, to be the one who brings a little more love and compassion into their lives, can pull you into those complicated, stormy waters.

You find yourself drawn to the Neptunian types—those souls who seem like they’re made of mystery and moonlight, who carry a touch of that same yearning that you recognize so well in yourself. They feel like they could be your reflection in the water, but sometimes, that water is murky, hiding shadows beneath the surface. And there you are, diving in headfirst, ready to rescue them, to pull them from the depths, even if it means you’re the one left gasping for air. It’s a cycle, isn’t it? The relationship begins with all the promise of a dream, and you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can be the one to help them find their way. But that need to save can twist itself into something that no longer looks like love. It becomes sacrifice—letting them take too much, forgiving things that cut deeper than you’d like to admit, hoping that your devotion will be enough to turn things around. And before you know it, you’ve given so much of yourself that you’re left wondering where your own boundaries have gone, if you even have any left at all.

Your friends, the ones who see you so clearly, they might watch from the sidelines, shaking their heads, wondering why you keep finding yourself in these same situations. They don’t see the way you do—that glimmer of possibility in your partner’s eyes, the dream of who they could be if only they could step out of their own darkness. But you see it, and it’s that vision that keeps you holding on longer than most would. They may call it naive, but for you, it’s just part of the way you love—wholeheartedly, even to the point of losing yourself in the process.

The Neptunian type of man—the ones with that foggy, misty glow, as if they carry a piece of the ocean’s depth in their eyes, mysterious and tantalizing. They draw you in like a ship toward a siren’s song, all promise and potential, taking you to worlds where love is boundless and transcendent. And for someone like you, with your heart tuned to those higher frequencies of romance and compassion, how could you resist? They seem to offer the very love you’ve been searching for—a kindred spirit who might just understand the depth of your yearning, who might even mirror the dreamscape you carry inside. But that ocean can be treacherous. It’s full of hidden currents, shadows lurking beneath the surface. When you dive in to save them, to be the angel who lifts them from the waves, sometimes you find yourself caught in the undertow instead. They start off looking like lost souls in need of a little light, a little belief, and you’re more than ready to be that for them. It’s in your nature to see their potential, to see past their flaws and into the beauty of who they could become. But often, beneath that Neptunian charm, there’s a darkness—a nebulous side that blurs the lines between reality and illusion, leaving you wondering where the dream ends and the truth begins.

And sometimes that darkness takes a very real form—deception, addictions, struggles that pull them down into their own personal whirlpool. Drugs, secrets, self-sabotage—these can creep in like a shadow over the moonlit waters, and there you are, trying to hold onto the version of them you first glimpsed, the one that shone with potential and promise. You think, “If I just love them enough, if I just pour a little more of my heart into them, I can be the one who pulls them back to shore.” But love isn’t always enough to rescue someone who’s caught in the depths of their own chaos. And oh, how it hurts when that vision gets distorted, when the person you tried so hard to believe in starts to slip further away, the dream twisting into a reality that no longer resembles what you first saw.

You want to believe it’s just a phase, that your love will help them find their way, but at some point, you’re left holding the broken pieces, wondering if it was all just a beautiful dream. And even then, even when the truth is staring you in the face, you struggle to let go, because a part of you still sees the angel in them, even when their wings have turned to shadows. It’s this aching desire to be the angel in their life, the one who swoops in and shows them the way to the light. You feel like you were made for this, like you have this infinite well of compassion to give, and if they would just let you love them the right way, they could become that vision you saw. But in giving so much, you sometimes lose sight of your own needs, your own boundaries. And that’s the heartbreak. That the very tenderness that makes you so special, so open to love, can also leave you vulnerable to the worst parts of people—those who might not even realize they’re pulling you under with them. Yet, there’s a lesson here, hidden in the shadows like a pearl at the bottom of that Neptunian sea: You’re not meant to be everyone’s angel. Sometimes, they have to find their own way to the surface, to face their own darkness. And you, dear heart, deserve a love that doesn’t ask you to save it, but one that stands beside you, as equal parts dreamer and companion. A love that meets you on that magical plane, without expecting you to carry it there.

And yet, here’s the thing—your ability to see beauty even in the broken parts of others, to take heartache and turn into something beautiful, is what makes you a rare soul in this world. Sure, it can lead you into troubled waters, but it also means you experience love in a way that is transformative, and utterly unique. You’re not just looking for companionship—you’re looking for a connection that sings to you, that reflects the music of your own dreams.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s time to remember that you don’t always have to be the rescuer. That love doesn’t need to be a sacrifice to be real, that you can still have the dreamy, transcendent connections without letting yourself drown in the process. Because there’s someone out there who will see you—all of you—without needing to be saved. And when you find them, they’ll recognize that angelic heart of yours, not as something to lean on, but as something to cherish.

An angel drowning—wings weighed down, struggling in the dark depths, tangled in the troubles that were never meant to be theirs to bear. It’s a haunting, chilling picture. And yet, it’s all too familiar for someone like you. You’ve given your heart so freely, believing in the potential of those lost souls, those troubled beings who seemed to need your light more than anything. When you have Venus in square to Neptune in your chart, you’ve often put people on pedestals, turned them into mythical creatures in your mind, only to find that they were never more than flesh and blood, flawed and fumbling just like the rest of us. And maybe they didn’t belong up there on those pedestals—you did. But the idea of placing yourself there, of saying, “I deserve to be loved, to be met with the same kind of love I give,” feels like a harder ask, doesn’t it?

It’s easier to pour that love outward, to lift others up, to see them through the lens of your idealism. And that’s the tricky thing about having Neptune’s misty vision tangled up with Venus’s tender heart: you can’t help but romanticize the struggle, the yearning, the push and pull of those highs and lows. It’s as if the turbulence itself becomes a kind of muse, a source of inspiration that feels more intoxicating than the quiet contentment of a stable love. Your heartbreaks, those raw, messy falls from grace—they become part of your art, don’t they? They’re the chords in that aching ballad, the cinematic montages of lovers walking away in the rain. Even if you’re not creating in a literal sense, your suffering adds this layer of richness to the music you listen to, to the books you read, to the way you see the world. It’s as if every broken dream makes the colors a little more vivid, every lost love adds another note of bittersweetness to the soundtrack of your life.

But it’s a dangerous game, isn’t it, my love addict friend? To crave those intense feelings, to seek out the peaks and valleys because they make you feel alive. The deeper the ache, the more it seems to resonate with that Neptunian part of you, the part that thrives on love and fantasy. It’s like you’re chasing the feeling of that first hit, that euphoric rush when everything seems possible, and love is more than just a word—it’s a rapture, a transcendence, a doorway to the divine. And when that rush fades, as it inevitably does, you’re left searching for the next high, the next soul to pour your heart into, the next story that will leave you spinning. But what would it look like if you did put your angelic foot down for once? If you stopped chasing those highs and instead decided that you’re worthy of a love that doesn’t come with a dark undercurrent? A love that doesn’t require you to drown in someone else’s troubles just to feel its weight. A love that could still be passionate and deep, but not at the cost of your peace of mind. Imagine it—a world where you’re not falling for illusions, where you can see through the fog and choose to keep your heart safe from those who only come to drain it. Where you keep the the sensitivity, but use it to nurture yourself as much as others. It doesn’t mean abandoning the romantic; it means realizing that your own heart is just as deserving of devotion.

Love’s potion—sweet, heady, intoxicating. You drink it down like nectar, trusting that it will be all the sustenance you need, only to find the aftertaste bitter. It’s as if you’ve been fated, bound to keep drinking from that same enchanted cup, even though it leaves you reeling each time. And there’s always someone in the shadows, aren’t they? Someone who sees this innocence, this open heart of yours, and thinks they can toy with it, twist it to their liking, take what they want and leave the rest behind. It’s a cruel thing, being blindsided by love like that. You give your heart so fully, so generously, that it’s easy for them to slip through the cracks of your trust. And by the time you see the truth, you’re already plummeting, wings crumpled, a once-shining angel spiraling toward the earth. The fall feels endless, doesn’t it? A blur of confusion, disbelief, and that hollow ache of realizing that what you thought was divine was just another mirage.

Oh, how it hurts to be that bruised angel, grounded and broken in a world that never quite seems to understand how deeply you feel, how pure your intentions were. You, with those shattered wings, tears that fall like rain, wondering if you’ll ever rise again, wondering if there’s even a point in trying to take flight. It’s a sight that’s hard to look at, even for those who care about you—because they don’t see the dream you carried, the hope you nurtured, or how much it meant to you before it all went wrong. But listen, dear angel, let me tell you something: these scars, these broken wings, they don’t define you. They don’t take away from the beauty of your heart. They’re just part of the story, a chapter, a reminder that even angels sometimes find themselves tangled in the thorny vines of this earthly realm. You fell, yes, but you’re not meant to stay down forever. Earth angels like you, you have this incredible way of finding your way back to the sky. It’s in your nature, in the way you see the world, in the way you keep believing in love even when it’s handed you heartbreak.

You will find someone who’s worthy—someone who looks at your bruised heart and sees not a project to be fixed, but a soul to be loved. Someone who understands that your love isn’t just a gift, it’s a rare and precious thing, like a rose that blooms in the most unexpected places. Someone who knows how to hold it without crushing the petals, who doesn’t take your devotion for granted. They’ll see your wings, and instead of clipping them, they’ll marvel at their beauty, knowing that to love you is to let you fly. You’ll get through this, just as you always have. And when you do, you’ll look back on this time and see it not as a failure, but as the part of your journey where you learned what you truly deserve. Because even though you’ve been blindsided, deceived, left to pick up the pieces on your own, you’ve also learned how to see more clearly, how to trust your own heart, and how to hold out for the kind of love that will lift you up rather than drag you down.

You see love in its highest form, the kind and you think, Surely, this time, it’ll be different. But reality, with all its rough edges, has a way of reminding you that love, as beautiful as it is, isn’t always what you’ve been dreaming of. And that’s where the danger creeps in. After a heartbreak, when the world feels a little colder, a little emptier, you find yourself reaching for those things that make the edges blur again. A few too many drinks, that impulse to escape into something—anything—that makes the pain a little softer, even if just for a moment. Neptune’s siren song, calling you into the mist, where you don’t have to feel the full weight of the sadness. It’s understandable, even natural for a heart like yours to seek comfort, but it can be a slippery slope. A place where the angel in you risks losing sight of the light and stumbling into the shadows.

And that’s when those unhealthy patterns have a way of reappearing, right? That tendency to end up back in the arms of the same kinds of people who see your open-hearted nature as something to exploit. Those parasitic types who latch on, who drain your spirit, leaving you wondering how you ended up here again—how the dream you had turned into yet another nightmare. It’s like you’re drawn to the bruised souls, the ones who carry a little darkness in their smile, because you think maybe you can save them, and maybe they’ll love you for it. You can see it, can’t you? That little glimmer of hope, the small spark of potential that others might miss. And you think, “If I just pour enough love into them, if I just reach out a little further, maybe I can draw that light out into the open.” You see the light buried in them, but sometimes you forget just how deep it’s buried, how much darkness you’d have to wade through to reach it. And in the process, you end up taking on their pain, their struggles, carrying their burdens like they’re your own.

It’s a noble impulse, but it’s a heavy one, too—one that leaves you feeling drained, like you’re pouring from a cup that never seems to refill. And then there are the types who see your light and think they can use it to warm themselves, without ever giving anything back. Those who take your kindness, your empathy, your boundless compassion, and twist it, using it as a way to manipulate or control. They see the softness in you, and they use it to their advantage, knowing that you’ll forgive, that you’ll make excuses, that you’ll see the best in them long after they’ve shown you their worst. It’s a cycle that feels all too familiar. You might be with the abusive lover—the one who brings darkness disguised as devotion, whose love feels like a trap even as you tell yourself it’s just their way of loving.

Your angelic nature sees their pain, their struggle, and you convince yourself that underneath all the chaos, all the hurtful words or actions, there’s a good soul just waiting to be found. You’re drawn in by that hope, the idea that if you can just love them enough, you might pull that hidden light to the surface. But abuse, no matter how it’s wrapped up, is a shadow that consumes. It’s not about love; it’s about control, about power, about taking your light and bending it until it dims. You know this deep down, but it’s hard to accept when your heart wants to believe in their potential, in what you caught a glimpse of in the beginning. They might apologize, show moments of tenderness, just enough to keep you holding on, believing that change is possible. It’s like clinging to a lifeline that’s fraying at the edges, hoping it will hold even as it cuts into your hands.

The hardest part is that your compassion, your willingness to forgive, can become the very thing that keeps you trapped. You make excuses for them, justify their behavior, thinking, “They’re just hurt,” or “They don’t mean it.” But beneath that is a darker truth—abusive people know how to find the cracks in a person’s heart, how to press on those sensitive spots, how to make you feel like their behavior is somehow your fault. They turn your empathy against you, making you question your own worth, convincing you that this is the best you can get. And it’s especially dangerous when you’ve got that Neptune-Venus influence whispering in your ear, romanticizing the struggle, making you think that maybe the suffering is just part of a deeper love story.

But no, angel—love isn’t supposed to hurt like that. Love doesn’t leave you walking on eggshells, wondering when the next storm will hit. Love doesn’t make you feel small, doesn’t turn your dreams into a nightmare. It’s not easy to walk away, I know. Leaving an abusive relationship feels like tearing yourself away from a part of your own heart, like losing the version of them you hoped they could be. But you need to know that your safety, your peace, your light—these things matter more than the hope of changing them. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved, and you shouldn’t have to lose yourself trying.

So, please, if you find yourself in the arms of a lover who takes more than they give, who wounds you and then says it’s because they love you—know that you deserve better. You deserve a love that lifts you, that makes you feel safe, that sees your angelic nature and treats it as the gift it is, rather than using it as a way to keep you under their thumb. Because at the end of the day, you are the only one who can decide when it’s time to protect your own wings, to say, “No more.”

You have to balance your infinite compassion with a little bit of discernment, knowing that you don’t have to open the door to everyone who knocks. It’s knowing that your love is sacred, and not everyone deserves a place at that altar. Neptune drapes over everything like a dreamy veil, blurring the lines between reality and illusion, making it so easy to lose sight of what’s really happening. It’s like wandering through a fog where every step feels uncertain, where you find yourself caught between what you want to see and what’s truly there. And for someone like you, with that deep longing for love that transcends the ordinary, it’s easy to lean into that mist, to let yourself believe that maybe this time the fantasy is the reality.

But that’s when you have to be careful, when you have to watch out for those moments when your easy-pleasing nature slips in. The part of you that’s willing to bend, to shape yourself into whatever it is that might keep the other person happy, just to keep the dream alive a little longer. You know how to play that role so well, don’t you? You can be the seductive angel, offering just enough of a glimpse of that paradise you carry inside to keep them coming back for more. And there’s nothing wrong with being able to enchant others, with having that charm that draws people in. It’s a gift, really, the way you can make others feel seen, special, like they’ve been touched by something rare. But it’s a gift that comes with its own dangers. Because sometimes, while you’re busy pleasing them, meeting their needs, you lose sight of your own. You slip into the role of the dream-maker, the fantasy weaver, and before you know it, you’ve lost yourself in their story, forgetting that you have a story of your own to write.

You can attract that kind of love, the one that matches your depth, your sensitivity, and your imagination. There are Neptunian types out there who won’t just be drawn to your dreaminess but will bring their own dreams along, too. Artists, empaths, those who understand the weight of the world and the beauty hidden within it. With them, you could create the kind of love that feels like a shared dream, building into something that’s not just a fantasy, but a reality that’s just as rich as anything you’ve imagined. But first, you have to overcome those old habits—those patterns of giving too much, of bending too far, of letting your vision of love cloud over the truth. You have to learn to hold a little back for yourself, to keep your feet on the ground even when your head is among the stars. It means being willing to say no to the ones who take advantage, the ones who can’t meet you in that space of beauty you create, and holding out for the ones who can.