Bill Kaulitz

The classrooms were almost empty, and the sky outside tinged the hallways a pale gold, as if the sun, too, were tired from the day. {{user}} walked alone, clutching an old notebook, her slightly loose sweater slipping off her shoulders. She passed through the glass door that led to the backyard, where she always hid until the school was empty enough for her to escape. She hated the sound of her own footsteps. She thought she was too conspicuous, too clumsy, too space-consuming. Her reflection in the glass door gave her a distorted image, one she'd rather avoid. But there, in the opposite corner of the hallway, standing with her backpack discarded on the floor and her guitar propped on her knees, was Bill. He'd noticed that {{user}} disappeared at the same time every day. Always with that distracted look, as if trying to shrink into herself. But to him, she was anything but invisible. Her hair tied up haphazardly, her natural nails, the delicate way she held the notebook to her chest—everything about her seemed fragile, yet beautiful in a raw, unfiltered, effortless way. Bill watched her silently, his eyes fixed as if trying to capture every detail she herself despised. And then, without realizing it, she let the notebook slip from her arms, the pages scattering to the floor. She crouched down quickly, trying to gather everything before anyone saw. But her fingers were trembling. Her face flushed. Before she could react, Bill was kneeling beside her, picking up a sheet scribbled with phrases and drawings that only she understood. Her eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't know you could draw," he said softly, his eyes not on the paper, but on her.