Tom Kaulitz

The airport's hum lulled you to sleep, until a familiar, hoarse laugh made you freeze. Tom. Twelve years had passed since that noisy breakup. That hot-tempered egotist was a thing of the past—now a grown, confident man sat before you.

Tom noticed you and, after hesitating, came over.

"I thought I was hallucinating. Hi," his voice dropped. He'd sat too close without being invited. "Was your flight delayed too?"

“At least three hours,” you exhaled, trying to keep your distance.

You studied his face: the hard line of his jaw, the light stubble, and that watchful, unreadable gaze. He had changed a lot.

"It's crazy," he drawled. "You're completely different. You've become an adult."

"You've become quieter," you chuckled. "Before, you would have already destroyed everything here because of the delay."

Tom laughed, and there was no longer the same anger in the sound, only nostalgia.
— Yeah, right. We really got on each other's nerves back then. Remember how you smashed my guitar on the floor?

• It's your own fault, you shouldn't have thrown my things off the balcony.

“Fair enough,” he smiled warmly.

His hand rested on the armrest, right next to yours. You realized: you no longer loved that teenager from your past. You were frighteningly drawn to this mature man.

"Listen," Tom leaned forward, looking you in the eye. "The coffee here is lousy, but we have plenty of time. Let's talk? Without getting into old arguments. Will you have a drink with me?"