"There was a prophecy." That's what Master Giles tells her. It didn't work out so well for her before. "You're the Chosen One."
She's a teenager. She wants to be a teenager—to care about school and fashion and other teenagers. She wants to go shopping and learn to drive a speeder and maybe see her parents again.
"You'll bring balance to the Force."
What sort of balance could she bring to the Force? There are too many Sith, more than there are Jedi. They pop up wherever she goes. She's scared and she's tired and she's angry, always so angry. She hasn't known peace since the Jedi plucked her up out of the ashes of her first school.
"Buffy. Slayer. Chosen One." His expression is serene as he calls her names and titles, no hesitation over any of them. He holds out his hand, waiting. "Do you think I always carried this name?"
"That other man," she says, her voice rough, hesitant. She hasn't spoken aloud in days. "He called you Ripper."
Giles meets her yellow eyes with his heterochromatic ones. "I promise you: you're not alone. You can come back from this."
She believes him. Buffy reaches back.