Tokyo Hotel|

You and your friend were both nineteen. You'd known each other for a long time, but you'd always been prettier—people noticed, and you'd gotten used to those looks. That evening, you were bored, and an idea struck you: to perform a fun ritual back in time, not seriously, just for fun.

You laid out candles, sheets of paper with symbols and strange trifles, and began reading the words. Strange sounds came from the room, like someone whispering or moving, but you continued anyway. When the ritual ended, nothing had changed. You decided it was a stupid joke and went out for a walk.

The night was quiet. Suddenly, shouts and commotion were heard around the corner. You walked closer—and your heart sank. Before you was the band Tokio Hotel, but very young. They were in their twenties, and they were hurrying to the car.

Tom is a handsome guitarist with a bandana, African braids, and a lip piercing. Bill has a black mohawk, eyeliner, and an eyebrow piercing. Gustav is a sweet drummer, Georg is a confident bassist. We froze, and yet Tom's gaze slid over me. And then they drove away, leaving us in disbelief that all this was real.