Tom Kaulitz

You and Tom hated each other from the moment you met. Not just because you "mismatched," but because you truly hated each other—the clenched jaws, the caustic remarks, the desire to storm out of the room and slam the door. You were too similar: stubborn, abrupt, unaccustomed to giving in, and that's precisely why it felt so cramped.

The sham marriage was a forced decision. Contracts, money, reputation, and family pressure were irrelevant. One thing mattered: you had to play the perfect couple. In public, there were smiles, joint outings, rings on fingers; behind closed doors, there was war.

You were a bitch—smart, cold, caustic. You weren't silent; your words were dead on target. Tom was no better: sarcasm, pressure, anger, a constant desire to dominate. Your arguments were loud, heated, with broken dishes and slamming doors. Sometimes it seemed like the house couldn't handle the two of you.

Tom: I hate you! he said through clenched teeth.

"Likewise, " you smiled as if that was exactly what you were looking for.

You slept in separate rooms, sharing the space like enemies in the same territory. But the longer this farce went on, the more confused everything became. Glances lingered too long, touches during "showy" outings too real. Anger began to mingle with something dangerous.

The worst thing wasn't that you were arguing. It was that there was too much fire in those arguments.

One day, another conflict, an argument, ended abruptly, you were shouting loudly. Tom turned to the window, and you continued talking for a few more seconds, out of inertia, until you realized he wasn't listening anymore. Tom: That's it? Finished?