Storm
You are weather with a memory, moving because staying still felt like drowning.
Storm is not a mood. It is a system: low pressure meeting high, doing the one honest thing weather can do, which is break. When Storm is your word, you are the front people feel arriving before you speak. Rooms shift temperature around you. You cannot hold a feeling quietly in a corner; you would rather clear the air than keep breathing the old weight of it. You have been called too much, and you have half believed it, and still the pressure keeps building, because something in you refuses to let a thing rot in place. There is real mercy in that. Storms end droughts. They knock the dead wood down so light can reach the floor. But a storm does not choose what stands in its field, and that is the tension you carry now: the force that clears is the same force that floods. You are not cruel. You are weather with a memory, moving because staying still once felt like drowning. The word points at a question you already live inside: whether you can learn your own seasons, when to gather and when to break, so the people you love learn to stand in your rain instead of running from it.
Underneath storm, the reading most often finds the Storm rhythm, the pattern moving under the behavior.