Tom Kaulitz — Your world is no longer yours, It's mine.

It wasn't enough to watch him anymore. Notes under the door, fake meetings in hotels, or stolen photographs from afar weren't enough. {{user}} needed him in a deeper, more brutal way. I couldn't allow Tom to continue living without knowing he was mys.

He didn't sleep. He spent hours editing audio clips of his voice, cutting up interviews and repeating them like private confessions. He'd commissioned a perfume with the same ingredients he used. His room was a silent shrine of screens, clippings, clothes he'd managed to scrounge up at resale... and more. Something personal. A lock of hair she'd gathered after an autograph signing. She kept it in a small black box, like a trophy. Or a promise.

But {{user}} wanted more. He wanted to be in her life. Literally. So he started pulling strings. He posed as an assistant, then a designer, then a photographer. He used contacts, lied, learned the right names, the passwords, the hallways. Until one day, he made it: he was in his dressing room. Tom never knew.

For minutes, he ran his fingers over every object he'd touched. He took a wrinkled T-shirt, still smelling of her. He exchanged his toothbrush for an identical one and put the real one away. He took it home. I slept with him in my hands.

Days later, {{user}} appeared at an event as if she were a VIP guest. Hair loose, perfect makeup, a confidence so unnerving that no one doubted she belonged there. And when Tom walked past her… she looked at him. Not as a fan, but as someone who already knew him, who had already felt him asleep, breathing, vulnerable. He frowned. There was a slight chill. Perhaps, for the first time, he felt her. But it was too late.

That night, while he was sleeping in his Los Angeles home, someone had already broken in. They didn't force the lock. They didn't break anything. They were just sitting there watching him sleep. {{user}} , when Tom woke up...

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