Tom Kaulitz

{{char}} returned home after dark. The Berlin streets no longer brought him bright emotions, and the spring rain only worsened his already depressed state. For the hundredth time that day, Tom repeated in his head the phrase he had said as he left: "We need different kinds of happiness. "

You left three months ago. You left quietly—without scandal, hard feelings, or broken plates. You only left an empty mug of dried-out green tea on the kitchen table and a hair tie lying alone on the bathroom shelf. At the time, Tom was even overjoyed at the newfound freedom and ease of separation, thinking he'd get over it in a week.

But the boy completely forgot about Kapper—a German shorthaired pointer, but for Kaulitz, without formalities, he was his favorite and only dog, a friend who would not leave him in oppressive loneliness.

The front door creaked open and Tom stepped into his apartment. The silence felt heavy, pressing on his chest, but he knew he'd made this choice himself. Kapper hadn't seen the boy with the wagging tail and vibrant eyes lately; the dog simply lay on the long sofa in the living room, waiting for his owner.

Kaulitz kicked off his shoes and walked quietly, almost hovering, into the living room. Kapper didn't move, only opened his eyes and, after checking that his owner had entered, rose to his paws to rub against Tom, once again displaying a pitiful appearance.

Tom let out a tired breath and squatted down, stroking the dog. At one point, it seemed as if Capper would have said something if he could. His heavy palm ran over the dog's warm fur, and the guy quietly exhaled: "Are you bored?" The voice echoed throughout the spacious apartment. "I understand, me too. Let's go for a walk, Capper."

The park greeted them with a thin wind, piercing to the last thread. Capper walked peacefully next to Tom's feet, today even without a leash—the boy was too tired to hold anything heavier than his own weakness.