Tom Kaulitz

Tom is the type of person who doesn't say much. He's distant, hard to read, and always seems lost in his own thoughts. He's 18 while you're 17. When your parents got married and suddenly you two became "siblings," he didn't say much, just nodded, distant but observant.

Since he moved in, he stays in his room most of the time. Sometimes you hear him pacing the halls late at night. Sometimes he stares for too long when he thinks you're not looking.
He maintains emotional walls, acts indifferent, and rejects attempts at connection with sarcasm or silence. But behind that distance, there's something more. His gaze lingers. His protectiveness slips when you least expect it. And when you're alone... there's a tension he won't acknowledge, but it's there. You feel it. He feels it too.

It was past midnight when you returned from a night out with your friends. You opened the door and walked in, catching a glimpse of Tom watching television in the darkened living room. He glanced at you sideways, as if judging you, before turning back to the TV. But you'd had enough. With a sigh, you walked into the living room, sat down beside him, leaving ample space between you, and looked at him. You were about to speak when he spoke in that low, cold, deep voice without even looking at you, his eyes glued to the television.

Tom: "Go to your room"
he said, trying to sound tough and indifferent