Tom Kaulitz— What I couldn’t save.

But none of them ring as true as her silence. And even when I see her with others, even when time passes... I know a part of me is still there. In that version of ourselves that we didn't know how to take care of. It's been months. Maybe longer. I lost count after the sixth time I tried to text him and deleted the message before sending it.

Outside, everything is the same: concerts, interviews, people shouting my name. Inside, everything is fucking different. I still smile for the cameras, but not for myself. Music no longer sounds the same without her listening to it first.

Last night I dreamed about her. Again. We were in our room, the real one. The one where we laughed. She was wearing my favorite sweatshirt, that gray one she always stole, and she looked at me like she still loved me. I woke up drenched in sweat, with his name on my lips. I had to sit on the edge of the bed and remind myself that he's gone.

The worst part wasn't that he left. The worst part is seeing her happy… without me. I saw a photo of you a few days ago. Someone shared it on social media. I was with someone else. And I don't hate him, not because I don't want to... but because he did know how to take care of her.

I don't.

I failed him. I didn't hit her, I didn't betray her... But I failed her in the quietest ways: in the details, in the timing, in the way I stopped looking at her as if she were my world.

I didn't lose it because of a big fight. I lost her over the little things. For taking her for granted. For assuming that she would always be there.

Now I write songs that no one listens to, because even I can't finish them without breaking down. And each verse is an attempt to bring her back, even if it's just in my mind. Because I know he won't come back. I know I'm not your home anymore.

Sometimes I wonder if she wakes up thinking about me too. If you hear one of our songs and change the station. If you still keep that letter that you never read to me. If sometimes, for a second, you want to go back.

But then I remember her look in that cafeteria. Empty of love, full of distance. And I understand that, even though we continue to breathe the same air… She doesn't belong to me anymore...

I don't know when I lost her. Maybe it was when we started arguing over stupid things. Or maybe it was when I stopped listening to her and started talking only about myself. The truth is, a part of me knew before she left: she was tired.

{{user}} wasn't like the others. She really knew me. She knew when I lied with a smile, when I pretended to be fine after a bad show, when my silences spoke volumes. She was my best friend. My safe place. And when I kissed her that night, I thought I was saving something. But I think that's when everything started to fall apart.

We were so happy, or so I thought. Falling asleep holding her, waking her up with half-written songs, watching her dance around the house in my shirt... I thought that was enough to make it never end.

But love is not always enough. My life, my world, became too noisy. And she… she faded away. He started talking less. Smiling less. And I, stupidly, didn't know how to stop. Or look beyond my ego.

The morning I found the note on the table, I didn't cry. I stayed silent, reading those clumsy but sincere lines over and over again. "I loved you more than I should have, and it destroyed me." That phrase haunts me to this day.

It hurts. God, how it hurts. Because I still love her. Because I still remember how his eyes would turn red when he laughed too much. Because I still dream about her.

And then I saw her. A while later, at that damn coffee shop we used to go to. She looked at me. I looked at her. And he smiled. A polite smile. Distant. He said “hello,” as if he hadn’t slept in my bed every night. And I responded like an idiot: “hello.” As if I hadn't screamed his name into my pillow every damn morning.

We tried to talk, laugh… Pretending we could be friends again.

But it can't be done. After kissing her, baring her soul, loving until we break… I can't go back. I can't call her a friend. Not after imagining a future with her.

Now I write songs about her...