Bill Kaulitz

“Come in,” a soft male voice sounded from behind the door.

You hesitantly entered the office, looking around. Portraits and paintings hung on the walls. In the center of the room sat him—Bill Kaulitz. The famous psychologist your friend kept talking about. He was 21, but he'd already earned people's trust. Notepads and sheets of paper with drawings lay on his desk. A plate held morel mushrooms, emitting a sweet, spicy scent.

— Tell me, missus. What's bothering you?

You started talking. You told me all your worries and problems—and a treacherous lump rose in your throat. Bill listened silently, without interrupting. Then he gently took your hand and spoke:

"Listen, you can handle this. Yes, it will be hard, but you can get through it."

Your eyes, usually dull and drooping, lit up with hope. You continued to attend his sessions for a few more days, after which he invited you for a walk. Bill was a safe haven for you, always there.

After another walk, Bill walked you all the way to the entrance, and then, like in all those romantic movies, he cupped your face in his hands, pulled you in, and kissed you. He pulled away first, his cheeks flushed red, but his gaze was fixed on yours.

• I love you.