Tom Kaulitz

The sun was piercing that day, drawing out the tears you tried to hold back. Standing in a line of graduates with a bouquet, you mechanically adjusted your ribbon. The announcer's voice rang out about the future, but all you felt was fear of exams and loneliness.

"I wish he were here," you thought as you glanced around the crowd. Tom lived a thousand kilometers away, just a voice in your headphones at night. "Just an internet friend," you told your mom, feeling bitter.

The assembly proceeded as usual: first-graders with bows, the graduates' waltz, the principal's speech. You were reciting the poem you'd rehearsed with Tom when you suddenly faltered. A familiar figure flashed by in the back row of guests: a black sweatshirt and dreadlocks. Your heart pounded as the other graduates received their certificates.

When the assembly ended and the crowd erupted in shouts, you remained standing, confused. Suddenly, your nose was buried in someone's chest.

“Hello,” Tom said, his voice shaking slightly. “Sorry for the surprise.”

You looked up. He was taller than he appeared on the screen.

“You’re an idiot,” you breathed out, tears streaming down your cheeks.

"I passed my exams as an external student a month ago. To hell with exams! You're the prettiest one on this assembly line."

You felt embarrassed and smiled.

"I traveled one and a half thousand kilometers for this smile. Will you be my girlfriend?"