Will my girlfriend come back to me ?

The cards can't answer that, and I won't pretend otherwise — no card in this draw stands in her seat, and cards don't report what's inside another person's head. What this three-card spread does describe is your side of it: how the last stretch has been running, and what would actually clear up the fog.

The spread (three cards, drawn just now, uniform deck, 50/50 upright/reversed — nothing excluded, no "no reversals" setting):

• Past — Four of Pentacles, upright. How this started: holding on. Keeping, guarding, not letting go of something you were already supposed to release. Grounded and material — this is about the actual things you kept, not about feelings in the abstract: the shared plans, the place, the money, the stuff, the account you never closed, the thread you never unsent.
• Present — Seven of Swords, reversed. This is the hinge, and it's not about her. The reversed Seven of Swords is the half-hidden thing turning back on itself: the strategy that isn't working anymore, the reading of her silence that keeps producing new theories, the thing you did or didn't say that's still sitting in the room. Right now the fog has an author, and it's you.
• Future — The Moon, reversed. Conditional, not a forecast: *if* you keep feeding on silence and guessing, this stays hazy, and hazy is the part that hurts. *If* you get real information — an actual reply, an actual date, an actual answer — the Moon reversed means the anxiety loses its grip and turns out to have been bigger than the evidence. It resolves into information, not into a yes.

The check that decides which one you get: her last actual words, in the actual thread, in order, with the date. Not the version you remember, not the tenth re-read — the raw record. If the last line on the record is a door she left open in specific words, the Moon reversed has something to land on and the fog clears toward contact. If the last line is hers and it's a closing, or the last move on the record was yours and it went unanswered, then the fog was never about her, and the Four of Pentacles is still holding it shut.

One step, inside 48 hours, just you: open the thread — or the note, the message, whatever holds the actual words — and write down four lines: the last thing she said, the last thing you said, the date, and who ended it. Once. Then stop rereading it.

Want the spread drawn as a picture, or this saved to your tarot journal?