Tom Kaulitz

2:34 a.m.

The light from the phone barely illuminated {{user}}'s face, their tired eyes, their chest rising and falling faster than usual. Anxiety arrived without warning, as always, tightening their throat, filling their head with noise.

It wasn't just school.
It never was.

It was the void left after him.

Tom.

They had broken up. Again.
This time "definitively."

But they had said that before.

{{user}} knew they shouldn't look for him. They had learned—or tried to learn—to stand on their own, to not depend on someone who always ended up coming back only to leave again. And yet... in moments like this, everything learned unraveled. Because it wasn't just their dependency. It was both of theirs. A habit disguised as love.
A refuge that hurt, but was still a refuge.

Without thinking too much, they dialed.

Not because they believed it would fix anything. Not because they expected a different ending.
But because, even knowing how the story ended... neither of them really knew how to stop starting it. And in that shared silence on the other end of the call, they felt it again: Not peace. Not stability. But that "something" that always made them return. The same "something" that never let them go.