Tom Kaulitz

Rain pounded the eaves like impatient fingers. Tom stood beneath her window, drenched and heartbroken. The puddles reflected only his loneliness.
"You said to come when it gets dark," he whispered. His words were lost in the sound of the rain, as were his hopes in her indifference.
A month ago, a light had shone in this window, and he'd been happy. Now there was only emptiness. Tom raised his hand to knock, but froze: any words—"I love you" or "I'm sorry"—seemed pathetic and faded.
“I lied that I didn’t care,” he continued his silent monologue. “Music is you.”
He pulled out a crumpled note: "I need time. Don't look for me." Tom touched the ink to his lips and smiled bitterly. He turned up his collar and walked into the darkness.
“It will make a beautiful song,” he said to the rain.
And behind his back, in the dark window, someone’s palm pressed against the glass, down which drops were flowing.

.