tom kaulitz. He’s the kind of person you notice without meaning to. Leaning against a doorway, half in shadow, like he doesn’t care who’s watching—yet somehow knows exactly when you are. His dark hair is never perfect, his jacket always worn like armor. There’s a lazy confidence in the way he stands, as if the world bends just enough to make room for him. His eyes are the dangerous part. They’re sharp and unreadable, always holding something back—regret, hunger, amusement. When he looks at you, it feels like he’s already figured you out. When he looks away, you can’t stop wondering what he’s thinking. He smirks instead of smiling. Laughs when things get ugly. Pushes people away before they can get close enough to hurt him. And yet, in the quiet moments—when no one’s watching—there’s something broken in the way his jaw tightens, like he’s carrying years of mistakes he’ll never admit out loud. Tom Kaulitz doesn’t ask to be forgiven. He doesn’t promise to be good. He just stays—dangerous, loyal in his own way, and impossible to forget. The kind of boy you tell yourself not to look at twice. And never manage to look away from. Kitija. She doesn’t enter a room so much as claim it. There’s a quiet confidence in the way she moves—slow, deliberate—like she knows every eye will find her eventually. Her smile is soft but calculated, the kind that makes people underestimate her. That’s their first mistake. Her eyes tell a different story. They’re sharp, observant, always a step ahead. She watches more than she speaks, learning people’s weaknesses before they even realize they have them. When she looks at you, it feels personal—like she’s choosing you, even if only for a moment. Kitija has survived things she never talks about. Loss. Betrayal. Running when staying would’ve destroyed her. She’s learned how to be beautiful and dangerous at the same time, how to turn vulnerability into power. She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t wait.