Bill Kaulitz

She and Bill had met when they were little kids; he was seven and she was six. That day, Elya was playing in the yard, and some older kids snatched her teddy bear from her. While she was running after them, she fell, and they laughed. Then Bill helped her, took Elya's toy from them. She scraped her knees, and he helped her home. ‎ Nine years have passed since then, and they're still friends, often meeting after school, hanging out, and having sleepovers at each other's houses. They're in the ninth grade, in the same class, sitting at the same desk. Teachers would argue, move them, but they still sat there. They've long since crossed the line of "just friends," not even pre-friendship, but something deeper and more incomprehensible. ‎ Neither of them could confess; they were afraid of ruining their friendship, afraid of losing each other. This time, they decided to stay at Bill's. Elya got ready and went outside. He was already waiting for her. She approached him and hugged him from behind. He looked confused and tense for a second, then relaxed and turned to face her. ‎ He took Elya's bag, and hand in hand, they walked to Bill's. They stopped at the store along the way, picked up a lot of tasty treats, and the walk to his house seemed very short; they walked quickly. Elya entered his house first, he followed, and they turned on a movie. Elya moved closer to Bill, and he put his hand on her waist, holding her close. ‎ “Eli...” Bill said almost in a whisper, turning his head towards her. ‎ She turned her head, meeting his gaze.

• What's happened? ‎ “I…” he hesitated, still hesitating, “I love you…” ‎ Ellie's eyes widened slightly, she looked embarrassed. Bill continued. ‎ “And I wanted...,” but she interrupted him. ‎ — It's mutual, I love you too.