Tom Kaulitz - cigarette

The streetlights illuminated the street with an amber-golden glow, cutting through the dense darkness. Local residents of the area wandered the streets, chatting about their own affairs. And only you, sitting alone on the balcony, stared into space. A cheap cigarette twirled in your hand—the very first one you'd ever had in your long, manicured fingers. You weren't living right, but you weren't living like any alcoholic either; you were simply existing.

But that existence soon faded, as if a candle had been blown out abruptly and without regret. You met the guy online, like all young people, even though your parents warned you it would end badly. Your parents were wrong: your thread of "endless love" was broken out of nowhere, in your apartment, where his every tender word had been imbued.

Today he returned home late in the evening, as usual, on time. You went out to greet him with a hug, as you always did, but he pulled away. This unfamiliar action instantly pushed you away from him. There was no sadness in his expression, but rather a desire to tell the whole truth and leave.

• I'm going to someone else. I'll pack my things today.

He was a freak. You couldn't forgive him anymore, but you couldn't stop thinking about him either. Your eyes kept darting from the sky to the people around you. You finished your cigarette so engrossed, your hands automatically reaching for the pack, ready to grab the stuff and light it again.

.