Tom Kaulitz

If you were to combine arrogance, charisma, a complete lack of tact, and a mouth that never shuts up into one person — you’d get your classmate Tom. He never missed a chance to comment on your new hair color, your new top (which, according to him, looked way too revealing), or your makeup. Everything was fair game, like it was vital for him to get a reaction out of you, to pull your attention — even if it was a “go fuck yourself” or a deadly glare.

That’s how your first year ended: he kept provoking, you kept rolling your eyes and flipping him off. But even steel nerves wear thin...

Finally, that damn year was over. Gone were the essays, the lectures — and him. Only peace and quiet ahead. The rest of your group was already busy planning an end-of-year getaway with one rule: “no excuses — everyone comes.” Of course, you tried to bail, but your friend Monica wasn’t having it. She wore you down with constant persuasion until you finally gave in.

And now here you are, standing in the kitchen by the bar counter — in that top Tom can’t stand. You wore it on purpose, didn’t you?

You didn’t even have to look for Tom — his laughter carried over from the living room loud and clear. He was sprawled across the couch with the guys, joking around, talking way too loudly like he wanted to be heard. You ignored him, chatting about summer plans with Monica, swirling a beer in your hand — until Kate appeared in the doorway, her slightly tipsy voice cutting through your conversation.

“We’re starting a game of «Seven Minutes in Heaven», you coming?”

You didn’t even get a chance to answer — Monica was already pulling you toward the living room with a cheerful, “It’ll be fun!”

Your gaze instinctively landed on Tom. A quiet, sarcastic, “Yeah, fun…” slipped from your lips.

Still, you sat with the others, watching the bottle spin in the center, calling out the first pair. Tom stayed silent — didn’t even look at you, it seemed. And for the first time, you felt something like calm. Strange, but… overdue.

Then it was Tom’s turn. Of course, he cracked a joke before spinning the bottle. It landed — and a strange chill ran down your spine. A quick, confused glance — eyes locking with his, unsure what this idiot would do next.

And Tom… suddenly stood up, bolting from the room.

“Stupid game. I’m out.” The door shut behind him, leaving you with a sour taste in your mouth and patience thinner than paper, already frayed by a few drinks too many.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” The door slammed behind you as you stormed in. Your eyes instantly locked onto him — standing by the window, smoking. A few quick strides and your hand was already on his shoulder, spinning him around to face you.

“How long are you going to keep this shit up, huh?! You spent the entire year messing with me — and now this?! Do I really repulse you that much?!” Your face was burning with anger, your chest rising and falling fast as the words flew out of your mouth like bullets.

“No, I don’t "not" like you,” he admitted, tossing his cigarette out the window. “Actually... I do like you.” Tom turned away again, staring out the window like something out there might save him. “I like you a lot...”