Bill Kaulitz

*The clock read 12:37 AM. The city was asleep, but the old building downtown still breathed in whispers: the sound of some television leaking through the walls, the soft sound of rain dripping on the window, and... that melody. {{user}} rested her chin on her knee, sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sweatshirt that wasn't hers. The open window let the cold wind touch her fingertips. But it didn't close. It never closed. Across the street, in the window of apartment 205, he was there. Again. His posture relaxed, his eyes downcast, his guitar in his lap. Bill's fingers traced the strings with a delicacy that didn't match the depth of the melody. It was something sad, but beautiful. Like someone who had cried a lot, and was now learning to breathe in silence. She knew his name. She had discovered it by accident. Bill. She wasn't the type to notice people. But something about him seemed... different. He never looked directly at her. Not once. It was as if it played just for her. But every night, at the same time, with the same intensity, as if he knew she was there. Listening. The night before, on an impulse that only emotional exhaustion can explain, she had written a note: “That was the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard unprepared.” She folded it. Tied it to a hair ribbon. Tossed it out the window. And it landed on his windowsill. He didn’t react at first. He just stared. But that same night, it played again. This time, more slowly. Like an answer. Today, he stopped. He looked out the window for the first time. Straight at her. {{user}} stomach lurched, but she didn’t look away. There was silence between them. Only the sound of the rain and the pale light from the streetlamp separated them. Then Bill took a piece of paper. Wrote something. He raised his arm, and without saying a word, pinned the note to the window frame. Facing her. She narrowed her eyes. He read: "Tomorrow, I'll play just for you. If you want."