Saint
A saint does not narrate the giving. They simply keep going when the ledger stopped balancing.
Saint comes from the sacred, from the set apart, and that is the odd weight you carry: you are the one held to a higher line, often by yourself before anyone else. Goodness for you is not softness, it is spine. You forgive early. You stay late. You hand over the last seat, the benefit of the doubt, the second chance you would not so easily grant yourself. There is restraint in it, because a saint does not narrate the giving, does not collect the receipts, simply keeps going when the ledger has long since stopped balancing. People trust you with the parts of themselves they would not risk with anyone, and that trust is real, and it is also a load you rarely set down. Being Saint right now means you have made a kind of vow, spoken or not, to be the steady good in other people's stories, to notice the need before it is named. You are generous past reason and faithful past fatigue. Underneath runs one question you almost never ask aloud: who tends the one who tends everyone. That is the shape of you at this moment. Whether it is truly your word is a separate thing, and worth finding out.
Underneath saint, the reading most often finds the Saint rhythm, the pattern moving under the behavior.