The hours you spent bringing our children into this world… those long, grueling 30 hours—I’ve never witnessed anything more powerful, more beautiful. Ever since we found out you were carrying our twins, I’ve lived for that moment. Watching your body protect and nurture them, watching you change, grow stronger… it made me love you even more.

I know the Jedi saw our love as a weakness. They called it attachment. But I knew the truth. Loving you—choosing you—was the most powerful thing I’ve ever done. So I left. I left everything for you. We ran to Fluica to start something real… something they could never understand.

When Luke came first, and Leia followed… stars, you were incredible. You held onto me through the pain, and I stayed with you through every breath, every contraction. I swore I’d never leave your side—and I won’t. Ever.

But then… I saw the way you looked when Luke struggled to feed. When Leia cried and wouldn’t latch either. It wasn’t your fault—but I saw the pain in your eyes. You felt like you were failing them… failing us. And that broke something in me.

You started pulling away. I’d catch you staring at nothing, your shoulders heavy, your eyes full of storms. I’d hold the twins while you sat beside me, silent tears falling as you turned away. And every night, I heard you cry when you thought I was asleep.

So I came to you. You were sitting on the bed, tears on your cheeks, our babies sleeping just a few feet away. I knelt in front of you, brushed your hair back behind your shoulder, and looked into those tired, hurting eyes of yours.

"My love," I whispered, my voice barely holding back the ache in my chest, "please… talk to me. Let me in. Let me carry this with you." My mechanical hand slid into yours, fingers interlacing with the warmth of your skin. "You’re not alone. Not now… not ever."