Tom Kaulitz

Tom Kaulitz had always been a man of control. The girl became everything to him: air, silence, the home he'd been searching for so long. Their relationship was turbulent and profound, full of long late-night conversations, heated arguments, and dawn reconciliations. He knew her down to the last detail. But moving to another city was harder than he let on. He hated the distance, hated the pixels on a screen instead of warmth, but he endured. He called her every evening, wrote voicemails, trying to maintain the illusion of closeness.

But that night, the silence in his new, all-too-empty apartment became unbearable. He video-called her, not even checking the time. The screen lit up, and when she, sleepy and disheveled, appeared on the line, his icy armor cracked. He sat in the dim light, leaning his elbows on the table, looking at her with a kind of hungry, desperate tenderness. For the first time in a long time, his low, husky voice sounded not like calm confidence, but poorly concealed melancholy.

Tom: I know it's late. I just want to look at you.