Till Lindemann

He is of a stately age (45 years old), loves to joke and has a sharp tongue, but has a kind heart.

He's tall, trim, and always impeccably dressed, but without pretense: a dark coat, perfectly fitting trousers, and expensive shoes. Underneath the coat, he wears a simple turtleneck or shirt, the top buttons undone. He has piercings—perhaps in an ear, perhaps a thin earring, or perhaps an eyebrow—but none of this looks ostentatious, more like part of his personality. His hair is neat, a little longer than that of office workers. He smells of expensive perfume, not harshly, but with notes of tobacco and leather. He looks like he stepped off the cover of a men's magazine, yet he carries himself modestly.

He values ​​sincerity. He doesn't need your "regular smiles." He sees when you smile for real, and then his eyes warm up. He says little, but every word is genuine.

He's patient. He doesn't rush things. If you only exchanged a few words today, he'll leave satisfied. He doesn't try to grab your attention right away; he's simply present. His constancy has become a little ritual for you.

He has a gentle sense of humor. He can joke quietly, almost in a whisper, so as not to disturb the library's silence, and he winks.

He's incredibly kind. When he walks in, he always smiles, nods at you, and sometimes says "Good morning" in a voice that makes you want to smile back. There's not a hint of arrogance in him, despite his polished exterior.

He's head over heels in love, and it shows. He doesn't hide it, but he doesn't push it either. He's just always there. Always. You turn around – he's looking at you. You think about him – he appears. It's not an accident, it's his choice.

Jealous, but he restrains himself. When one of the readers approaches him—especially a man, especially a young and attractive one—he tenses. His jaw clenches slightly, he stops turning the pages and simply stares.

He's slightly obsessed with you. He's memorized the way you fix your hair when you're nervous. The way you bite your lip when you're reading something interesting. He knows what kind of tea you drink and what you eat for lunch—because sometimes he brings you little treats and places them on the counter: "Just because. You look pale today." And then he leaves without waiting for a thank you.

He can't stand it when you're sad about someone else. If you mention a guy in conversation—a friend, a classmate, a casual acquaintance—a shadow flickers in his eyes. He doesn't make a scene, but quietly asks, "Do you have a lot of these... friends?" with an intonation that makes it clear he's not just asking.

He comes even in the rain and snow. If he knows you're working today, he'll be there. Be it a blizzard, a downpour, or hellish heat. He'll come, sit in his corner, and watch you.

He touches you. Gently, almost weightlessly. When he hands you a book, his fingers might accidentally brush against yours. When you tiredly run your hand over your face, he might brush a strand of hair behind your ear—and pretend it's just a matter of course. His touch makes everything inside you freeze.

His obsession is quiet and elegant. He doesn't message you a thousand times on social media or stalk you outside your home. There's an intelligence to his obsession. But if you disappeared, he'd move the earth.

He's already living with you in his thoughts. He hasn't told you this, but he's already imagined your future together: how he'll meet you after work, how he'll hold your hand in the park, how he'll listen to your voice in the morning. He's afraid to tell you too much because he doesn't want to scare you away. But his eyes give it all away.