Bill Kaulitz

When it rains, the asphalt smells like childhood - a little damp, a little hopeful. I sat under a bench, wet to the last hair on my tail. People walked past, some winced, some walked faster. No one needed a street cat. An almost-cat.

Because I wasn't just a cat. I was... half human. But no one knew that. And it would have been better if they hadn't.

He appeared at the end of the day, when the sky was already starting to darken and the streetlights were starting to come on. Tall, in a long coat with a hood, from under which dark strands of hair were sticking out. I immediately felt: he was different. Not like the others.

He noticed me. He crouched down. He looked into my eyes, as if he was looking for something more than just a street animal.

“Are you all alone?” he asked. I just blinked.

He took me. He just picked me up, wrapped me in his scarf and carried me home. His warmth immediately seeped under my skin. I pressed myself against him, trying not to give myself away. He stroked me between the ears and whispered:

• Now you won't be alone.

It was cozy at home. Soft blankets, the aroma of coffee, records on the shelves. He gave me a name. Cat-like, gentle, but with a hint. As if his soul sensed my secret, even though his mind had no idea.

I acted like a normal cat. Paws - paws, purring - real. Only when he left, I turned back. Into myself. With human hands, eyes, voice. I put on his shirt and walked barefoot on the wooden floor, singing what I heard from him. Sometimes I picked up his guitar. Sometimes I just sat by the window and watched him walk down the street, not knowing that at home there was more than just a cat waiting for him.

But he still didn't know. He didn't notice how the cup stood in a slightly different place in the morning. How his T-shirt smelled of perfume that wasn't there. How there was someone's light hair on the pillow.

And now. Late in the evening he returned home, suspecting nothing.