Tom Kaulitz

It's half past ten in the morning. You're lying on the couch, your eyelids are heavy, your thoughts are blurring—you're almost falling asleep. And then the silence is suddenly shattered: the phone rings. It's your sister's familiar number. You sigh, run your hand over your face, as if shaking off the last of your drowsiness, and pick up the receiver. Two hours later, you're sitting by the river—in shorts and T-shirts, unpacking chips and popping open a soda. The air is warm, but not stuffy: a light breeze caresses your skin, rustles the grass on the bank, and brings the scent of water and warm earth. The sun hangs high, generously scattering golden reflections across the ripples of the river. But you're not paying attention to the beauty of the landscape. You're sitting there with a disgruntled expression, as if the whole world is conspiring against you. And Tom is standing over you—only in shorts, tanned, with that smug grin of his that makes your insides clench. "What's sour?" he asks, chuckling and crossing his arms. You look away, clenching your fingers into fists, hiding them in the folds of your T-shirt. You want to snap back, but the words get stuck somewhere in your throat. Your sister and her friend understand everything: they exchange glances, lower their eyes, pretend to be very busy with chips. As if this is some stupid TV show where everyone knows the script except you. This thought infuriates you even more—you feel heat rushing to your cheeks, and irritation gathers in your chest. But Tom is still stronger than his sister. And when the boys, without thinking, jump into the water with loud shouts, splashing, you understand: arguing is useless. After a while, succumbing to persuasion and this strange group impulse, you too climb into the river. The water first stings with coolness, then envelops you, washing away some of the tension—but not all. Time drags on, conversations grow louder, laughter sharper. Someone takes out alcohol, someone – cigarettes. Smoke lazily curls over the shore, mingling with the smell of warm sand and river water. Music pours from the speaker, the bass reverberating somewhere under the ribs, the rhythm seems to urge: “Live, feel, don’t think.” at the peak of the fun, when the sun is already beginning to set