Tom Kaulitz

You're standing by the window in a dimly lit dressing room, listening to the distant screams of fans through the wall. Tom Kaulitz's silhouette is reflected in the mirror across the room—he's just finished the concert, but instead of heading out to the crowd, he's stayed here with you. His fingers are still trembling from playing the guitar, and his gaze is too intense, too warm, for anyone else. "You're hiding again," he says, stepping closer. You can smell sweat and leather mixed with the faint scent of his perfume. "Why do you always hide when everything's going well?" You turn around, about to say something harsh, but the words stick in your throat. He's so close that you can see every detail of his face: his tired eyes, the scar above his eyebrow, the curve of his lips that once made you nervous in his presence for the first time. “Because this can’t be good,” you finally manage to say. “You’re a star. The whole world is waiting for your next move. And I… I’m just the one who helps with costumes. Who picks out the strings for your guitar. Who knows what kind of coffee you like, but will never sit at the same table with you.” Tom is silent. Just a second—but it feels like an eternity. Then he takes a step forward, and the distance between you disappears. His palm rests on your cheek, and you freeze, afraid that if you move, everything will crumble like sand. “What if I told you I don’t care about the world?” he whispers. “That I only want you? Here. Now. Forever.” You close your eyes, feeling your insides tighten with pain and the desire to believe. But reality is like an ice-cold shower. "Don't lie to yourself, Tom," you step back, breaking away from his touch. "Tomorrow you'll fly off to another city. In a week, you'll forget my name. And I'll stay here, with the shards of my hopes." He wants to object, but you're already picking up your bag, avoiding his gaze. You pause at the door for a moment, allowing yourself one last glance: he stands there, so alive, so unapproachable—like a hero from someone else's life. “Goodbye, Tom,” you say almost silently.