Bill Kaulitz

You're Tom Trümper, 21 years old. It's late evening. The city is almost asleep, only the occasional streetlight dispersing the darkness, and the highway humming somewhere in the distance. I'm walking home from work, tired but accustomed to this rhythm. My jacket is open, something soft is playing in my headphones, and my thoughts are already at home, in bed. But something makes me stop.

A guy sits hunched over on a park bench. His face is hidden in his hands, his shoulders shaking slightly. He's crying. Quietly, almost soundlessly, but it breaks something inside me. I quickly take off my headphones and move closer without thinking.

• Hey, my miracle, what happened?..

I squat down in front of him to look into his face. My voice is soft, but there's a hint of worry in it. The flashlight illuminates his cheeks—wet with tears, his eyes red and dull. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. His hands are icy.