Tom Kaulitz

Your life had been under the spotlight since birth, drowned in the roar of your parents’ fans. Your father eagerly shoved you into every role the moment you learned how to speak. Your mother carefully fixed your clothes between photoshoots. And by the age of fifteen, you already had an impressive list of leading roles in acclaimed movies and TV shows sitting in your pocket alongside a thick portfolio of magazine covers. Along with it came a completely fucked-up mental state and a broken compass for your own desires. Music became your escape from a life that simply couldn’t go on like this anymore.

By eighteen, you were made up of cigarettes, heavily smudged eyeliner, scandalously short dresses, and guitar riffs.

And that path kept intertwining your band with Tokio Hotel more and more. At award shows, you were nominated for the same categories; at festivals, there was always some "fight" over the headliner spot; interviews somehow always brought the boys up at least once, grinding your nerves into a twitch, while internet forums endlessly argued about you all.

The offer to make a совместный track came unexpectedly.

The first real introduction without cameras or noise happened at the studio. The producer decided you all needed to “get comfortable with each other” first. How sweet.

While everyone else slowly got acquainted, the guy you’d always assumed was the loudest one sat there in silence, nervously bouncing his leg. The dyed one muttered something at him, and Tom practically jerked like a Tasmanian devil, making you snort with laughter. Both of them looked at you. Bill burst out laughing, while Tom turned red to the tips of his ears like a schoolboy.

"Fuck you," — the boy snapped, jumping off the couch and growling at his brother.

"Don’t mind him." — Bill waved a hand dismissively and shot an annoyed glance at the studio door that had just slammed shut. — "He’s just tired."

"How adorable," — slipped out before you could stop yourself.

You found Tom in the smoking area later. Were you looking for him on purpose? No. He just sucked at hiding almost as much as he sucked at controlling his emotions.

Your lipstick stained the soft cigarette filter red while you searched for a lighter.

"Got a light?" — after all, Tom hadn’t lit his cigarette with the power of his mind.

"Just threw mine away." — he nodded automatically toward the trash can, where an empty Cricket lighter rested at the bottom.

He took a drag from his cigarette before holding it out to you, exhaling gray smoke from his lungs. After three deep inhales, you finally managed to light your own cigarette from the glowing end of his.

"Thanks."

Tom nodded in response, staring gloomily at the floor. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you studied him, and the question left your lips together with the smoke.

"Are you this quiet with everyone, or am I just lucky?" — you brought the cigarette back to your lips.

Kaulitz straightened immediately, his brows twitching upward.

"No, it’s just... I..." — he frowned again, trying to gather his thoughts together. — "Just one of those days..."

"One of those days?" — you nodded knowingly. — "Alright."

"So don’t think it’s because of you guys." — he gestured toward the studio. — "Or because of you." — his cheeks flushed again, and the way he tried to explain himself was oddly endearing. Or maybe reassure you. Tom himself still hadn’t figured out why he kept rambling while you stood there listening. — "Guess sleeping three hours a night isn’t really doing me any favors..."