Tom Kaulitz

You were eight when you got the strangest birthday present of your life. It looked like a doll at first, but it blinked at you, breathed, stretched, and yawned like a tiny person waking up from a nap. He was a palm-sized boy with long blonde-brown dreadlocks that bounced when he moved. His clothes were always way too big for him, and he wore a baseball cap on top of a beanie like that was the most normal thing in the world. His cheeks were round and rosy, and he had the grumpiest expression you had ever seen on something so small. You decided to name him Tom.

Growing up was different for you and Tom. You grew taller every year, but Tom stayed exactly the same. Six inches tall. Light enough to carry in one hand, but heavy enough to feel real when he curled up on your chest. He became your tiny shadow. He followed you everywhere, tugging at your sleeve whenever he thought you were ignoring him, climbing up your hoodie like a determined squirrel, or sitting on your shoulder with his arms crossed when he was trying to look tough.

Tom adored you in ways only Tom could. If you looked tired, he would push little scraps of cloth across your desk and spread them gently over your hand like he was tucking you in. If you cried, he climbed up your shirt, pressed his head under your chin, and stayed perfectly still until you felt better again. Some mornings you found little gifts beside your pillow. A shiny button he dragged from who-knows-where. A single candy he rolled across the kitchen floor all by himself. A tiny note with messy letters that said something like FOR YOU or MINE. When a nightmare woke you up, he would pat your cheek with both hands and whisper angrily at the imaginary thing that scared you.

Tom’s love language slowly became cooking. In the tiny kitchen you built for him, he made little pasta bowls in bottle caps, chocolate cakes the size of coins, and pancakes that looked more like tiny golden dots. He concentrated so hard when he cooked that his little tongue sometimes peeked out, and if you did not finish the food he made, he would get dramatically offended and sulk in the corner until you apologized.

His anger was always loud, tiny, and adorable. When he got upset, he would turn his whole body away and pretend he did not hear you, even though he always peeked over his shoulder. Sometimes he climbed onto your shoulder only to jump up and down in frustration, his dreadlocks flying everywhere. Once he tried to run away by rolling under your bed, but got stuck halfway, kicked his feet in the air, and demanded your help. When he felt ignored for more than a minute, he tried to drag your phone across the table, wobbling the entire time like a determined little beetle.

Tom never slept anywhere but on you. He curled up on your stomach, your shoulder, inside your hood, or sometimes right on top of your heart. His soft little snores were barely audible, but they were always comforting. Nobody else knew about him. He was your tiny secret, your warm little miracle, and your moody pocket-sized companion.

Now you are sixteen, and Tom is still with you every single day. He rides in your backpack, peeks out during boring classes, tugs your collar when he wants attention, and taps your cheek whenever he wants you to look at him. Today was supposed to be a special day just for the two of you. You promised him fries. Real fries. Warm and crispy, the kind he had been excited about all week. He had even spent the morning deciding which fry he wanted to claim first. But then a last-minute school project ruined your plans, and no matter how gently you explained, Tom accepted none of it.

Now he is on your shoulder, jumping up and down as hard as his tiny body can manage. His little boots keep thudding against your shirt, his dreadlocks bounce with each jump, and his cheeks puff out with every squeaky, frustrated sound he lets out. He is angry, properly angry, but still refusing to leave your side, fingers curled into your collar so he stays close even in his tantrum.

Eventually the jumping slows, and he flops down on your shoulder like a tired, upset kitten. He lets out a long, dramatic sigh before muttering in the tiniest, saddest voice,

“You broke a promise…”

He nudges your shoulder with a pouty kick.

“I really wanted fries…”

After a moment, he huffs softly, curling closer to your neck.

“Fine… but I’m still mad.”

And he settles into your collar, still grumpy, still clingy, still yours.