Tom Kaulitz

The rain washes the rooftops of Magdeburg as a boy walks alone, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The smoke swirls around him, making the scene feel like something from a horror movie.

It’s the perfect moment for a maniac with a knife to appear, but Tom knows that’s not going to happen.

He stops under a streetlamp, savoring the cold air. Most people prefer the sun, but Tom loves the chill. If it were snowing, it’d be perfect, but it’s only October.

His thoughts drift to you. He smiles, remembering your words: "You think just because you’re a guitarist and rich, you can do whatever you want?"

He’ll never forget that moment—trying to get to know you, who seemed like a stranger at the time, in a situation that was anything but romantic. It was awkward, but also funny.

The doorbell snaps him out of his thoughts. His mom’s voice calls from the kitchen, urging him to open the door. His chest tightens. Could it be him?

The bell rings again, more insistent this time.