Isadora stood in front of her mirror for the fifth time, scowling at herself.
She’d tried on three different outfits and finally landed on a faded Ramones tee, black flared jeans, and her trusty Converse — the ones with paint splatters from old band practice. Her eyeliner was a little smudged, but it felt right. Not too try-hard. Just... her.
At exactly 4:15 PM, her flip phone buzzed.
[1 New Message]
> outside. wearing the hoodie you roasted me in.
please be nice.
She smiled, grabbed her denim jacket, and bolted.
---
He was leaning against a scratched-up black Volkswagen Golf, hoodie up, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, iPod earbuds hanging from his neck, fingers drumming on the roof.
When he saw her, his whole face lit up.
“Hey,” he said, suddenly shy.
“Hey,” she echoed, hands in her jacket pockets.
They just stood there for a second, both grinning like total idiots.
“Ready?” he asked.
“For what?”
“You’ll see.”
---
The Spot
He took her to this weird little skate park tucked behind an old warehouse, way outside the city center. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was quiet. Some old graffiti-covered ramps, a busted vending machine, and an overturned shopping cart.
“Wow,” she said, stepping out of the car. “You really know how to impress a girl.”
He snorted. “I said it wouldn’t be loud. Didn’t say it wouldn’t be ghetto.”
She laughed, walked over to the edge of a halfpipe, and looked down. “Did you used to skate here?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. Before things got crazy.”
She turned to him. “You mean before you were Tom Kaulitz, international teen heartthrob?”
He groaned. “God. Don’t say it like that.”
“I mean, you are. I saw a girl literally cry in front of you last week.”
“She stepped on my foot and started sobbing,” he argued. “That doesn’t count.”
They sat on the edge of the ramp, legs dangling, a little breeze kicking up the smell of spray paint and asphalt.
After a few minutes of silence, he pulled something from his hoodie pocket.
A burned CD.
He handed it to her, the silver surface scrawled on with black Sharpie:
“Isadora Mix Vol. 1”
She blinked. “Wait... you made me a mix?”
He shrugged, suddenly awkward. “Yeah. I don’t know. Figured you’d get it. Stuff that made me think of you.”
She turned the CD over in her hands like it was a sacred artifact.
“Tell me what’s on it.”
He smiled. “Only if you promise not to judge me.”
“No promises.”
---
Tracklist Moments
They sat for another hour, talking about every track:
The Used. Placebo. Nirvana. Lacuna Coil. Even a random acoustic song from a band she’d never heard of.
They argued about music. About lyrics. About what made a song matter.
“I like songs that sound like the inside of your head when everything’s falling apart,” she said softly.
He looked at her sideways. “Yeah. That.”
---
End of the Date
As the sky started turning pink and gold, they stood up.
He walked her back to the car, hands in his hoodie again.
“Thanks,” she said. “For... this. For not trying too hard.”
He grinned. “Believe me, if I was trying, I’d have worn cologne and bought you gross gas station roses.”
She laughed. “Maybe next time.”
He looked at her — really looked.
“You want a next time?”
Isadora swallowed. “Yeah. I do.”
He stepped a little closer. Not too close. Just enough.
“I don’t wanna screw this up,” he murmured.
“Then don’t,” she whispered.
And just like that — soft and careful and a little unsure — he kissed her.
YOU ARE READING
"Strings Between Us
Romance2004. Germany. Tom Kaulitz is used to getting what he wants - the stage, the crowd, the girls. As Tokio Hotel begins to rise, so does his ego... until she shows up. She's the Brazilian guitarist in a rival band - quiet, sharp-tongued, and completely...
