The Time I Met Them Again

Three years later.
I almost never thought about Bill and Tom anymore.
I sometimes forgot their names, but remembered later on when I wasn’t thinking about them, and wondered where the names had come from.
In those three years that I had been away from them, my entire life had begun to revolve around music. I Googled the names of lyrics that I’d heard on the radio at least five times a day, and the fact that I only had a cheap MP3 player didn’t matter to me, so long as I had something to play my music on.
It was my brother Antony’s eighth birthday that I discovered them. The first time I saw the words “Tokio Hotel” was when I was playing Antony’s new game--Guitar Hero: World Tour. It was their song Monsoon that so captivated me in their music. That afternoon, I ended up Googling more of their songs, and purchasing two of their albums (the German album, Schrei, and the English album, Scream).
God, I should have realised it then....

Three more years.
Living in Australia was wonderful; I’d all but forgotten about Bill and Tom Kaulitz.
I was seventeen now, even living on my own. Well, a few blocks away from my mother and brothers, and I had a roommate, but still!
It was a warm summer day--and I was getting ready to go to a concert. Granted it wasn’t for a few more hours, but hey, I was excited!
Of course, I was at that stage in life that just about every teenager goes through; I caked my eyelids in eyeliner and black eyeshadow, then applied a shit-tonn of mascara to my eye lashes. Leaning back from the mirror, I smiled contentedly at myself, then reached for my red lip stain. I don’t care what you say, I was freaking gorgeous, even with all the makeup.
I was going to take a bus to the concert, and then my mother would pick me up afterwards, because I still didn’t have my license.
“Oi, Nirri!” My roommate, Caroline, called as she banged on the door. “You almost done in there? I’m busting out here!”
I gave myself a once-over in the mirror and opened the door.
“Bloody finally!” Caroline cried, pushing me aside and slamming the door. I laughed and sauntered off to my bedroom.
I had front-row tickets to my favourite band’s concert; nothing could bring me down.

By the time I got to the stadium, my heart was in my throat. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was obsessed with them or anything, but I pretty damn excited! As I have said before....
I stepped off the bus and into the street, walking up to the doors of the stadium, where they had set up a security station. I got in line and fidgeted with my sketch pad that I had brought, for the boring parts before the show and waiting for my mother afterwards. There were heaps of papers stacked up in the back of it, just other sketches that I had done and wanted to keep organized.
I glanced inside the stadium--and I saw them.
There they were. Beautiful in their perfection, just sitting there at a table, signing anything that was pushed their way. There was even one guy that had a guitar.
The people around me were clearly as excited as I was, if not more. There were a group of guys behind me, pushing and shoving each other around, and, as I got closer to the front of the line, one of them was shoved into me, causing me to lose my balance and drop my notebook. My drawings scattered and people just kept on with their business, walking all over them. I felt the sting of tears in my eyes as a particular favourite of mine was trod on by a dusty boot that left a mark.
I scrambled to pick up all of the drawings before any more were ruined, and I was holding up the line. As I reached for one of them, I saw someone else’s hand reaching for the same scrap of paper.
“I’ve got it, thanks,” I said without looking up, feeling a certain protectiveness towards my precious drawings. But the hand just kept on helping me. I sighed when we were done and stood up. That was when I realised that the line had been moved, away from my mess. I wondered why... That was when I looked up at the stranger that had helped me.
I gasped, my eyes going wide and my free hand flying to my mouth. “Th-thank you,” I stuttered. “You really didn’t have to, but--thanks....”
The lead guitarist of Tokio Hotel smiled at me. “It’s no problem,” He told me, his thick German accent resonating against my eardrums, making me melt. “No one else was helping, so I figured I would.”
I nodded, my eyes still wide with surprise. “Don’t you have to get back to...?” I motioned towards the table that he had been sitting at just five minutes earlier.
“Oh,” He said. “Yeah, I just.... Do I know you from somewhere?”
I tilted my head to the side. “What’s your name?”
He seemed taken aback by this, as if everyone here should already know his name. “Tom,” He told me. “Tom Kaulitz.”
And that’s how I met them again.