Ahsoka

He called me Ahsoka, the Star Wars legend.

At first, I smiled. But then something inside me went still. Because it wasn’t just a name, it was recognition. It was as if he saw through me, into the quiet spaces I keep hidden and named something I hadn’t yet dared to claim.

Ahsoka Tano. Once a Padawan, bright, impulsive, full of belief. She followed the light, even when it led her into darkness. She trusted and was betrayed. She lost her place, her people, her faith and still, she didn’t turn bitter. She walked away from everything she knew and found a gentler strength on the other side of loss.

Ahsoka became something beyond titles, beyond allegiance. She became herself.

When he called me Ahsoka, it wasn’t about power or heroism. It was about the quiet fight, the struggle to stay kind when it would be easier to close off, the courage to keep loving after you’ve learned how much it can hurt.

It’s terrifying to be seen like that. To have someone look at you and see not only your calm, but the tremor beneath it, the battles you’ve fought alone, the tenderness you protect so fiercely. And yet, it feels like love. Not the kind that saves or shields, but the kind that stays. The kind that sees your fractures and doesn’t turn away.

Being seen as Ahsoka is fire and surrender all at once scars and grace, storms and calm…

Ahsoka became who she is through fire, through loss, through compassion that refused to die. And somehow, he saw all of that in me. He saw the fire, the ache, the quiet persistence of a heart that still believes.

To be seen that way is dangerous.

It leaves me exposed, unarmored but also alive.

Because maybe that’s what love really is: not protection, but presence.

Not a promise to keep you safe, but a willingness to stay when the light flickers.

When he called me Ahsoka, it wasn’t just a compliment.

It was a confession… a quiet, unspoken promise.

He saw my storms, my scars, my softness and he didn’t flinch.