Tom Kaulitz

The course your life would take was probably decided the moment your mother grew tired of the charms of parenthood and rode off into the sunset with the first stranger who caught her eye, leaving you in Jenna's care—your grandmother's.

A woman who started every morning with a glass of wine probably wasn't the ideal guardian for a five-year-old, but no one had bothered asking your opinion. Once upon a time, this eccentric woman had basked in the spotlight of leading roles on the stage. Now she stubbornly refused to acknowledge the fading of her former glory and tried to warm herself in the dim light of second-rate productions.

You spent your childhood backstage, surrounded by directors who practically bleated for Jenna's approval while presenting their mediocre plays. She forbade you from calling her "Grandma," clinging desperately to her youth in the most ridiculous ways imaginable. And somehow, amid the drinking, the flattery, and the theatrical chaos, you developed a remarkably pure love for art—one free of shame, untouched by pretense, and overflowing with unfiltered sincerity.

Which was exactly why being suddenly sent away to live with your grandfather upset you so much. No one offered a proper explanation. The new town was smaller, the air seemed saturated with misery, and the sky hung low and gray overhead. The people here appeared incapable of experiencing an emotional range broader than that of a rock.

Your first day at school was a complete disaster.

The local teenagers met your individuality with barely concealed disgust and snickers. Honestly, it felt like if someone handed them pitchforks, they'd happily burn you at the stake in the town square.

Then there was Tom Kaulitz.

In this kingdom of frightened followers and narrow-minded cruelty, he was the king—the shining star, the reason behind countless dreamy sighs. Around here, his name was practically synonymous with the word "perfect."

His entrance into the school hallway looked like something straight out of an old teen movie, only exaggerated to absurd proportions. You could have sworn you saw someone nearly faint as he walked by. The only cliché missing was for Tom to stroll over and deliver some painfully cheesy pickup line.

Thankfully, Lady Fortune decided to spare your delicate sanity.

By literature class, the first paper notes had already started flying your way, decorated with insults and less-than-flattering sketches. The whispers from the back rows were loud enough to ensure you heard every word. Every minute spent in this mold-covered monument to small-mindedness filled you with irritation, outrage, and an overwhelming desire to wash your hands.

Gym class wasn't any better.

A basketball slammed into your back, and the laughter that followed echoed through the entire gymnasium, knocking the breath from your lungs. A couple of guys even patted Tom on the shoulder in approval.

Tom, however, looked embarrassed by the accident.

Still, he didn't approach you until after class.

You were standing by your locker when his tall figure appeared beside you.

"Hey..." — Tom looked unusually awkward, carefully choosing his words while nervously gripping the strap of his backpack. "I'm sorry... really..." — he scratched the back of his head and stared at the floor. Apologizing clearly wasn't something he did very often. "I didn't mean to hit you. Mike shoved me and the ball slipped out of my hands. I would never..." — Tom rambled on, gesturing helplessly as he spoke.

A sheepish smile tugged at his lips.

His warm brown eyes looked at you with the same hopeful expression as a puppy being scolded for chewing up something valuable.

"I'm Tom, by the way." — he held out a hand for you to shake. "And you are?"