Bill Kaulitz

Bill Kaulitz wasn't just a best friend—he was the only one. We were inseparable: eternal rascals, we shadowed each other, shared pranks, and furtively plundered the neighbors' apple trees. We could sit for hours in their spreading crowns, dangling our legs and telling each other tall tales, until an irate neighbor chased us out. We spent the entire summer in nature, and neither of us wanted to return to the stuffy city.

But one day, Bill left. He said goodbye to me briefly, in the morning, while I was still sitting at breakfast. He handed me a jar of fireflies—the very same ones we'd caught the day before, never having had a chance to admire their living, flickering light.
"Let them go tonight," he said. "Let them fly free."

And I never saw him again.

Years have passed. I'm studying at a prestigious university, living alone in a cozy apartment far from my parents' house. Everyone at the university knows me: I'm the life of the party, always in the spotlight. But this popularity has a downside: the professors shamelessly take advantage of my kindness. Every time, I'm the one tasked with greeting new students and showing them around campus, explaining the rules. Today was no exception.

I waited by the entrance for another freshman, but he still didn't show. Resigned, I was about to leave when I suddenly noticed a silhouette. A boy was approaching me: a messy bouffant, eyes the color of smoky ice. The sun's rays hit my face, mingling with the glowing dust particles dancing in the air, and I couldn't make out his features. The figure slowly emerged from the golden haze. And when he came closer, that same mischievous smirk playing on his lips, I recognized him instantly. It was Bill.