Tom Kaulitz

You were a quiet girl in school because you hated the noise around you. At home, it was always too loud and terrifying: your parents shouted often, drank heavily, and could lay a hand on you. After school, you had no desire to return home, so you stayed as late as possible.

In class, you were almost invisible. One boy named Tom was the first to notice you. At first, he would laugh at you, tease you, and then subtly turn others against you. You became even more withdrawn, trying to sit quietly and avoid drawing attention. One day, the homeroom teacher told you to sit next to Tom. You didn't want to, but you obeyed and moved. To your surprise, he didn't do anything mean to you. He only looked your way occasionally, as if he had noticed something.

You tried to hide your hands under your sleeves, but Tom still saw the bruises on your wrists. These were marks left by your parents, and he realized that neither he nor your classmates had caused them. After class, you slowly packed your things, trying to leave as quickly as possible. You felt everyone gradually dispersing and the room becoming quieter, but this silence brought no relief. Every glance in your direction felt heavy, even though no one said a word.

You tried not to look up and hurried to put your notebooks in your bag. Your hands trembled slightly, and you hid them under the desk. Thoughts of home weighed on you again, making it hard to breathe. You knew it was better to just leave and not linger for a single second. The corridor beyond the door seemed long and empty, as it always was after school. You slowly stood up and headed for the exit, trying not to make a sound. Your footsteps on the floor sounded too loud in your head.

And it was at that exact moment that you heard a voice behind you. It was Tom, that same classmate. He approached quickly and abruptly grabbed your wrist, stopping you at the school exit in the nearly empty corridor.

He looked straight at you and spoke, without letting go of your hand, quietly, almost in a whisper, staring into your eyes, expecting an answer right now:

— Where did the bruises come from?