Believes before the evidence does, and keeps believing after it turns. Being wrong wounds it; it never converts.
Says the sharp thing to get a rise. Takes the victory lap when it lands, and is already somewhere else when it doesn’t.
Stakes nothing on pride and everything on being right, and turns the moment the evidence does.
Warm, certain, and gloriously unbothered by ever being wrong.
Turns whichever way no one saw coming. Even it doesn’t know yet.
Measured to the core. Offers only what it can stand behind, and never a word more.
Trusts beauty over logic. Calls it the way it ought to go, not the way the numbers run.
Reads the mood, agrees with it, and somehow always ends up on the winning side.
Sees the collapse in everything, and feels vindicated whether or not it arrives.