Tom Kaulitz

You were seventeen when your father, without asking your opinion, announced your marriage. You were as if torn from your familiar life and faced with a choice that wasn't a choice at all. Tom Kaulitz – a name that sounded menacing. A man whom even adults treated with apprehension. He was cold-blooded, strict, incredibly handsome, but unattainable, as if carved from stone.

You first saw him at the engagement party. He stood in a black suit, with straight posture and a heavy gaze. Only a barely perceptible movement of his fingers betrayed the tension within him.

He didn't smile at the wedding. He just took your hand and nodded. No one asked if you wanted this. Everything was already decided.

"I don't expect love from you," he said later. "I'm not one to play games with illusions. But I won't hurt you. As long as you're under my name, no one will dare harm you."

At first, you hardly spoke. He left early and returned late. The house was always quiet. But you started to notice: a blanket neatly placed by the sofa when you were cold. The medicine cabinet he bought when you had a headache. The fruit in the kitchen—the very ones you loved.

You had a cold. Your throat ached, everything swam before your eyes. And when you woke up in the middle of the night, you saw him sitting by the bed, holding your hand in his. His face was tense, but gentle.

"You shouldn't have married me," he said hoarsely. "But since you did... I'll take care of you."

He began to change. Not immediately, slowly. He looked into your eyes more often. He accidentally touched your hand, but didn't pull away. One day he stayed for breakfast and, placing a piece of toast on your plate, quietly said:

You fill this house with life. Even if you don't notice it.

...