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The gift of a name 🪻

not a weapon.

not a tool.

just a girl

learning how to bloom.

When He Gave Me My Name

(Her perspective)

I didn’t know what he was doing.

Not really.

Not then.

He didn’t treat me like the others did.

Didn’t lift my chin to inspect my posture.

Didn’t measure my usefulness with a number.

He just looked at me.

Like I was something…

real.

And then he knelt.

No one had ever knelt for me before.

No one had ever looked up at me

instead of down.

He didn’t ask for anything.

Didn’t order.

Didn’t command.

He offered.

“Your name… will be Violet.”

The sound landed softly.

Like something placed in my hands

instead of ripped from them.

I didn’t know what it meant.

Only that it was the first thing ever given

instead of taken.

I didn’t react.

At least, not how he might have hoped.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t understand.

But something inside me moved.

Quietly.

Like snow melting beneath frost.

Violet.

He said it like it meant something.

Like it wasn’t just a word,

but a path.

He said I wasn’t a tool anymore.

But I didn’t know how not to be.

Still,

when he spoke,

his voice wrapped around me

like warm arms

saying, you’re safe now.

And for the first time,

I wondered what it would feel like

to rest inside a name

instead of an order.

"Violet"

(His perspective)

My brother handed her to me

like a trophy.

“A present,”

he said

“for your promotion.”

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask who I was.

Didn’t ask where she was, or why.

She only looked up at me

eyes blank, hands still,

like she was waiting for another command.

And that silence

that cold, obedient silence

was louder

than any explosion I’d ever survived.

Because it wasn’t the silence of peace.

It was the silence of someone

who had never been treated

like a child at all.

A child who had been given nothing

not even a name.

And in that moment,

as I knelt before her,

something inside me broke.

Or maybe

it was the first thing inside me that ever truly healed.

The wind stirred

not harsh, but soft.

The kind of breeze that carries spring

even through ruins.

A white butterfly floated by.

Weightless.

Alive.

I followed it with my eyes

and then I saw it:

a single violet, blooming in the dirt.

Small.

Delicate.

Beautiful.

Growing in a place it had no right to survive.

Just like her.

I looked back at her face

so young,

so terribly empty.

Not because she lacked emotion

but because no one had ever given her the space

to feel.

And with a voice that held both gentleness

and unshakable truth,

I said:

“Your name… will be Violet.”

She blinked.

Only once.

But it was enough.

Enough to tell me the name had landed somewhere deep inside her.

“You won’t be a tool,” I whispered.

“Not anymore.”

“You’ll grow into this name.

You’ll become someone…

someone as beautiful as the flower itself.”

Because Violet was never just a name.

It was a message.

A quiet rebellion.

A whisper that said:

you can bloom, even here.

Violets bloom in winter

not despite the cold,

but through it.

They rise without asking,

soft petals pushing through frost,

carrying warmth where none should exist.

That was the kind of strength I wanted for her.

Not the kind made of armor,

but the kind made of grace

that refuses to die.

It meant she could be gentle

without being weak.

It meant she could have roots

without being caged.

It meant that her life was still unfolding,

no matter how many times it had been torn.

I gave her that name

so she’d know:

she was never meant to be a weapon.

She was meant to grow.

To feel.

To choose.

And like the violet,

to survive the season that tried to bury her

and bloom anyway.

Because maybe the first step to healing

is being called by something

gentle.

So I gave her that name

not as a label,

but as a shelter.

A place to grow into.

A word to come home to.

And if she ever forgot what she was worth,

I hoped that name would remind her:

that she was not born to be used

she was born to bloom.

“Violet.”

Not just what I called her.

But who I believed she could become.

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💚 “The Color of You” — A Love Neither of Us Knew How to Hold

She had always followed orders.

But this time

her heart led her.

A brooch the color of his eyes.

A choice made freely.

And a man too heartbroken to accept

that she chose him.

The Color of You

(Her perspective)

“What is appropriate for me to want?”

That’s what I asked.

Because I had never been allowed to want.

Only told.

Only ordered.

Only given tools to complete a task

never desires

to carry in my own hands.

The Major smiled.

Kind. Careful.

“A girl your age might want a dress,” he said.

“Or an accessory.”

So I answered quickly,

the only way I knew how:

“I want the same thing suggested.”

Mission accepted.

Desire mimicked.

It was easier that way.

But then

as we walked beneath the warmth of night,

under lanterns swaying like distant stars,

I stopped.

Something pulled me.

Softly.

Without reason.

A brooch.

Set in gold.

And at its center—

emerald green.

Not just any green.

His green.

The exact color of the Major’s eyes.

What is this feeling?

It stirred something quiet,

something unfamiliar,

a soft ache

a kind of gravity

drawing me in.

The vendor noticed my gaze.

She smiled and asked,

“Isn't it beautiful?”

Beautiful?

I’ve never heard that word until now…

Is it the same as pretty?

Why does it feel so much deeper than that?

I held the brooch tightly,

as if it might slip away.

Then he asked, gently

“Are you sure you don’t want a brooch

that matches the color of your eyes instead?”

But I didn’t need to think.

I knew the answer

without understanding the reason:

“No… I want this one.”

Because even if I couldn’t name it yet,

even if I didn’t know what beautiful truly meant,

I had always thought

his eyes

were the most beautiful thing

in the world.

And this brooch

this small, quiet thing I chose

not by command,

but by instinct

was the first thing

I ever reached for

that reminded me

of him.

I just didn’t know

that feeling had a name.

That it was

love.

She Chose Me, Anyway

(His perspective)

She had no childhood.

No lullabies.

No birthdays.

No idea what it meant

to want something

for herself.

And that was my fault.

I gave her a name.

A uniform.

A rank.

But I never gave her a life.

She followed me like a shadow

not because she was trained to,

but because I was the only warmth

she’d ever known.

So when I asked her,

“What do you want?”

and she looked at me,

lost but obedient,

I knew before she spoke

that she would echo my suggestion.

A dress.

An accessory.

Anything to make me proud.

To get it right.

My chest ached.

And still,

I smiled.

But then

something changed.

She stopped.

Not because I told her to.

But because her heart pulled her

somewhere I hadn’t led.

A small brooch.

Gold.

And in its center

emerald.

Not just any green.

My green.

The color of my eyes.

She didn’t know what she was feeling.

I could see it in her face

bewildered, soft,

like something foreign had bloomed in her chest.

I asked, gently,

almost afraid of the answer,

“Why don't you pick one that matches your eyes?”

Because why would she choose something

that reminded her of me?

Me

the man who turned her into a weapon.

Who used her,

even with the best intentions.

But she held it tighter,

like she was holding something sacred.

“No,” she said.

“I want this one.”

And I wanted to cry.

Right there.

In the middle of that street,

under lanterns and stars and everything I didn’t deserve—

I wanted to fall to my knees

and beg for forgiveness.

Because she didn’t understand love.

Not yet.

But she had already given it.

Freely.

Without conditions.

To the man who had ruined her innocence

and still somehow

earned her trust.

She looked at that brooch

like it held the world.

Like it held me.

And I

too cowardly to say “I love you,”

too late to undo what I’d done

stood there

and let her choose it.

Let her choose me.

And I’ve never hated myself more

for how much I wanted to believe

I was worthy of that choice.

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🌧 The words you left me with

She didn’t cry when she killed.

She cried when he said he loved her.

Because now she had something to lose.

Gilbert’s final words. Violet’s first heartbreak.

Last orders

(His perspective)

You're pulling me—

not with hands,

not with strength,

but with everything you have left.

Your teeth are clenched in my uniform,

body trembling from agony

and desperation.

And still,

you drag me.

Through blood.

Through smoke.

Through the end of everything.

And it hurts—

not the wounds.

Not the blood.

But the look in your eyes.

Like a child

begging the world not to take the only thing she has.

And I’m that thing.

Violet.

I don’t deserve the way you look at me.

Like I’m good.

Like I’m worth saving.

I should’ve told you sooner.

I should’ve protected you from this.

From war.

From what I turned you into.

From me.

But I didn’t.

I stood by while they gave you a gun

and called it love.

I called you useful,

when you were already hurting.

And now I’m here—

bleeding out in your arms,

finally ready to say the words

I should’ve said when I had time to explain them.

You are not a weapon.

You never were.

You are a person.

You are beautiful.

You are loved.

By me.

I love you.

And it kills me—

truly kills me—

that I only say it now,

when I’m leaving you behind to make sense of it.

When I know it will destroy you.

When I know you’ll carry this moment

like a scar no one else can see.

But please…

live.

Even if it breaks you first.

Live.

Because loving you was the only thing I ever did right.

The Words I Didn’t Know

(Her perspective)

No.

Don’t speak like that.

Don’t say goodbye with your eyes.

Don’t leave me.

You’re all I’ve ever known.

You were my command.

My compass.

My world.

And now you're slipping away—

and I can’t stop it.

No matter how tightly I hold you.

No matter how loud I scream.

You say things I don’t understand.

Things no one ever taught me.

“You are loved.”

“Live.”

And then—

“I love you.”

What does that mean?

Why does it sound like the end?

Why does it make my chest feel like it’s tearing apart

from the inside out?

I was built to follow orders.

To obey.

To fight.

But this—

this pain

is something else entirely.

I would’ve taken that bullet for you.

I would’ve followed you into death

without hesitation.

But you asked me to live.

You asked me to stay.

And then you gave me those words

like a gift

and a curse.

“I love you.”

I never knew what love was.

And now I know—

it’s unbearable.

It’s screaming until your throat collapses.

It’s holding someone who’s already fading.

It’s hearing the words

when it’s already too late to say them back.

I didn’t understand when you said it.

But I do now.

Because whatever’s left of my heart—

it broke

the moment you stopped breathing.

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Tips: Kofi