I moved to this small town with nothing but my guitar and the weight of a lifetime of loss pressing on my chest—songs born from the nights I cried over my mother’s grave and the years I spent hiding from my father’s fists and whiskey breath. Every chord I strum, every word I sing, is soaked in that pain, raw and unflinching, the kind that makes strangers’ hearts ache as if they’d lived it themselves. I found the bar on the corner, a place with a cracked neon sign and a stage small enough to feel like confession, and for the first time in years, I wondered if someone could see past the scars I wear like armor. And then there was him—Tom Kaulitz—leaning against the counter with a smile I wanted to trust but couldn’t, because the world had taught me that men could hurt you faster than they could love you.