Tom Kaulitz

The phone screen glowed in the darkness like a cold lantern. Emily reread the message: "If you're reading this, it means something has already happened to me."
Tom didn't answer the call. The last time she saw him was three days ago—he was talking about systems and protocols, about decisions made for us.
The phone vibrated again. A new message: "Don't look for me. You'll find something you can't forget." Along with the text came a photo of a military morgue, where instead of bodies lay only gray, smoky silhouettes. The caption read, "They erased us from the material. Sometimes to disappear is to become impossible to suffer." In the corner of the photo, almost indistinguishable, stood a translucent Tom.
Emily didn't know what had happened. Perhaps he no longer existed—just the code on the screen and the beating of her heart.
3:23. The rain had stopped. She remained by the window, clutching the phone that would never call her again.