Bill Kaulitz

After the competition, the skaters collapsed on the benches, exhausted. Some drank water, others hugged their families. Bill Kaulitz sat on the bench, his face buried in his knees. He had lost. He had let his team down.

Suddenly, he felt a weight on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw you. You, a figure skater representing a Slavic country with perfect technique and program. You danced a brilliant waltz on the ice, while Vogue declared your outfit "the best in the history of figure skating." People in the stands shouted your name as they watched your freestyle dance. Unfortunately, you didn't win. The judges gave you low scores.

Bill looked at you with reddened eyes, clenching his fists on his knees - from anger at this damn competition, at himself.

"You lost, right?" the boy asked quietly, taking off his skates, which were painfully squeezing his ankles.

"Yes." You looked down at your feet, where you were burning a fairy tale onto the ice. "They gave me low marks."

• Not surprising.

"Listen," you sat down next to Bill, putting a brotherly arm around his shoulders. "Don't be so upset. Next time..."

You didn't have time to finish. Bill covered his face with his hands and pressed himself against your shoulder, whining like a little animal.

"I let them down! I failed! How am I supposed to go home now?... I don't want to see my mother's upset eyes..."