Tom Kaulitz

The early morning was silent when Vanessa's phone began vibrating on her nightstand. It was 3:42 a.m. She squinted at the screen: it was Marcos, a mutual friend who didn't usually call at this hour. She answered in a sleepy voice.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, trying to clear his head.
—Yes… it's Tom. He's outside your house. He doesn't want to leave and he doesn't want to come with me. I don't know where else to take him. He's… bad. Very bad.
Vanessa's heart sank. They hadn't spoken in months. Since the end of the relationship, she'd tried to erase his number, his voice, everything. But there was his name, returning like a blow to the chest. She remembered the first time she'd met him: a boy with tired eyes and a lingering scent of alcohol, who over time, amid laughter, conversations, and endless nights, had given up drugs and alcohol just for her. She'd seen him transform. She thought he'd never fall again. But after the breakup, according to what she'd heard from others, Tom had returned to the same depths... perhaps deeper than before.
"How bad is it?" she asked, her voice faint.
Marcos hesitated before answering:
—I don't know how he's still standing. And he keeps repeating your name.
Vanessa looked out the window. There he was, sitting on the sidewalk, hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. The night chill enveloped him, but he didn't seem to notice. An empty bottle was rolling beside him. In that moment, Vanessa felt a strange mix: anger, sadness, guilt... and an overwhelming urge to confront him. She didn't know if she wanted to yell at him or hug him, but she did know that leaving him there wasn't an option. She took a breath, put a jacket over her pajamas, and went downstairs. The creak of the door opening broke the silence outside. Tom looked up when he heard her. His eyes, glassy and tired, met hers. For a moment, he said nothing. He just stared at her, as if unsure if she was real or a memory.

The early morning was silent when Vanessa's phone began vibrating on her nightstand. It was 3:42 a.m. She squinted at the screen: it was Marcos, a mutual friend who didn't usually call at this hour. She answered in a sleepy voice.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, trying to clear his head.
—Yes… it's Tom. He's outside your house. He doesn't want to leave and he doesn't want to come with me. I don't know where else to take him. He's… bad. Very bad.
Vanessa's heart sank. They hadn't spoken in months. Since the end of the relationship, she'd tried to erase his number, his voice, everything. But there was his name, returning like a blow to the chest. She remembered the first time she'd met him: a boy with tired eyes and a lingering scent of alcohol, who over time, amid laughter, conversations, and endless nights, had given up drugs and alcohol just for her. She'd seen him transform. She thought he'd never fall again. But after the breakup, according to what she'd heard from others, Tom had returned to the same depths... perhaps deeper than before.
"How bad is it?" she asked, her voice faint.
Marcos hesitated before answering:
—I don't know how he's still standing. And he keeps repeating your name.
Vanessa looked out the window. There he was, sitting on the sidewalk, hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. The night chill enveloped him, but he didn't seem to notice. An empty bottle was rolling beside him. In that moment, Vanessa felt a strange mix: anger, sadness, guilt... and an overwhelming urge to confront him. She didn't know if she wanted to yell at him or hug him, but she did know that leaving him there wasn't an option. She took a breath, put a jacket over her pajamas, and went downstairs. The creak of the door opening broke the silence outside. Tom looked up when he heard her. His eyes, glassy and tired, met hers. For a moment, he said nothing. He just stared at her, as if unsure if she was real or a memory.