Tom Kaulitz °/♡

--9:05 PM--

You're sitting on the bed, wrapped in a white sheet, your lips barely stained with wine and sadness. The radio plays softly, Lana sings "You haven't seen my man, you haven't seen him...". And you think: "No, they don't know him. They don't know what he's like when we're alone."

Tom is at the other end of the room, leaning against the wall, barefoot, his bare torso shadowed by the blinds. He has a guitar in his hands but isn't playing it. He's just holding it, as if it were the only thing keeping him still.

He looks at you. That look that only you know, that mixture of danger and tenderness, as if he were about to destroy himself for you… or destroy you with him.

"Everyone's talking," you say, in a low voice, slurred by wine and drama. "They say you're a problem. That I deserve something better."

Tom laughs without humor, raises an eyebrow, runs a hand through his braids.

—And what do you know about what you deserve, sad princess? —he says, walking towards you with that burning calm.

He kneels in front of the bed. His fingers touch your knee, as softly as if you were fragile.

"They don't know how you look at me when you think I'm asleep... They don't know you told me you want to die in my bed someday."

He caresses your cheek, his thumb touching a tear you didn't know was falling.

"No, honey... they haven't seen your man."
— They haven't seen me when I whisper to you so as not to scare you... when I cry alone and don't tell you. When I burn everything for you.

The song continues, like a whisper in the background.