Tom Kaulitz

She had always been a being of a different order—a quiet light in a world accustomed to neon glare and harsh sounds. Her kindness wasn't a weakness; it was her natural habitat, her way of breathing. She believed in people not because she was naive, but because she knew no other way. She sought a spark of warmth in everyone, even if they seemed carved from stone.

That's precisely why Tom noticed her. To him, she was a challenge, an anomaly, something too pure for their hardened group.

That evening, the bar smelled of tobacco and cheap gambling. Tom's friends were laughing, discussing their new "trophies," when their gaze fell on her. She was sitting by the window, detached and calm, like a clear stream in the middle of a dirty square.

"See her?" one of Tom's friends nodded toward the girl. "She's the kind of person who feeds stray cats and believes in eternal love. I'll bet you a pretty penny, Tom, that your charisma isn't enough to make this 'saint' fall in love with you in a month?"

Tom grinned, twirling his glass in his hand. There was no malice in his eyes, only boredom and a habit of winning.

"A month?" he repeated. "Give me two weeks, and she'll look at me like I'm the only person in the universe."
He began his game delicately. He didn't overwhelm her with attention, but came to her like a wounded animal—quiet, a little lost, seeking understanding. He knew her kindness was a trap into which she lured predators, wanting to heal them. And he allowed her to "heal" him.

They strolled along the evening embankments, and Tom told her fictitious stories about his loneliness, about how the world didn't understand him. He stole her time, her thoughts, her sincere care. She listened to him as if every word were sacred text. She believed his eyes, in which he masterfully reflected her own tenderness. Just ten days later, she confessed to him that she had never felt such spiritual closeness before.