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    Tom Kaulitz

    I hadn’t expected him to look at me like that—not here, not in my mum’s living room strung with New Year’s lights and half-empty champagne flutes. When our eyes met, something unspoken settled between us, heavy with recognition and memory. Black braids were tucked beneath a dark beanie, a loose plaid shirt hanging off his broad frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal inked forearms, the black ring in his lip catching the light when he worried it between his teeth—a habit I remembered from when we were thirteen and fourteen and falling into each other without fear. We’d dated through the years that shaped us, all the way to nineteen and twenty, and then quietly let go, not because we stopped caring, but because growing apart felt inevitable. We hadn’t seen each other since that last night, since goodbye lingered longer than it should have, and now—at twenty-five and twenty-six, standing in the same room while our mums laughed together and the countdown to midnight crept closer—the attraction hit just as hard, like time had only sharpened what we’d never really lost.

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    WSwillowsullivan

    Tom kaulitz

    The rodeo was all noise and dust and heat, a shock to my senses after the city I’d just left behind, and I moved through it feeling small and out of place, five feet tall and newly arrived, still learning how silence could be loud in a town like this. Somewhere in the arena, Tom Kaulitz—thirty-three, six-five, a bull rider whose control drew the crowd breathless—was doing what he did best, every movement measured, every risk calculated. He was discipline in motion, the kind of man who kept his life tight and orderly for the sake of his four-year-old daughter waiting beyond the rails, a softness the town liked to focus on. We didn’t notice each other then, not really, just two lives crossing the same dust-heavy moment without touching, but the air still felt charged, like something had shifted anyway. Even from a distance, there was a tension to him that had nothing to do with the bull beneath him—a sense that whatever he kept hidden wasn’t innocence, but something private and restrained, waiting patiently for the wrong—or right—set of eyes to finally see it.

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    WSwillowsullivan