"Strings Between Us

the studio

Behind Closed Doors

The rehearsal studio was on the edge of Mitte, tucked between a garage and a shady coffee bar. Tom texted her the code to the back door earlier that morning.

As Isadora walked in — guitar strapped on her back, hoodie pulled over her eyes — she immediately caught the scent of cheap incense, dust, and old amps. Comforting, in a weird way.

Tokio Hotel’s gear was sprawled everywhere. A giant drum kit. Bill’s glittery mic stand. Loose wires coiled like snakes across the floor.

Tom looked up from his spot on the couch, braids slightly messy, his hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows.

“Hey,” he said.

She closed the door behind her. “Hey.”

Finally Face-to-Face

Neither of them spoke at first.

He offered her a soda from the mini fridge. She took it wordlessly.

Then finally:

“Are you okay?” he asked, watching her carefully.

“I’ve had like... 600 twelve-year-olds call me a whore today,” she said dryly. “So. Yeah. Super.”

Tom winced. “Isadora, I’m—”

“It’s not your fault,” she interrupted. “It’s just... I didn’t think it’d happen so fast.”

“I didn’t either,” he admitted. “I figured we’d get, like, one more week. One more date. Before all the noise.”

She sat down beside him, elbows on knees. “I’m not mad. I’m just... overwhelmed.”

“Same.”

For a moment, they just sat in the quiet hum of amps and reverb.

Then Tom leaned over and bumped her shoulder. “You still like me, though, right?”

Isadora smirked. “Don’t push it, Kaulitz.”

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Music = Therapy

After a few minutes of silence, Tom stood up and grabbed his guitar — the black one with the sticker-bombed pickguard.

He handed it to her.

“Play me something,” he said. “I wanna hear what’s been in your head.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“You’re better than half the guys on our label,” he shrugged. “Don’t tell them I said that.”

Isadora took the guitar and, after a moment of hesitation, started picking at a quiet melody — something unfinished, raw, almost haunting.

Tom sat down on the floor, leaning back on his hands. “That’s about me, isn’t it?”

She laughed. “Maybe. Maybe it’s about a guy who gives terrible first kisses and still thinks he’s cool.”

He threw a pick at her.

Honest Words

The music faded. They sat again, closer this time.

“Do you want to slow this down?” Tom asked, more serious now. “Because I’ll understand. I don’t want this to mess up your band, or your head.”

Isadora looked at him, her voice soft. “I don’t want to slow it down. I just want to do it right.”

Tom nodded, leaning his head back against the wall. “We’ll do it our way.”

She smiled.

“And hey,” he added, “if anyone talks shit online again, we’ll write a diss track.”

“Two bands, one burn song?” she grinned. “Iconic.”

“Legendary,” he agreed.

The Beginning of Them

Later, before she left, she took out a Sharpie from her backpack.

“Give me your arm,” she said.

Tom raised a brow, but obeyed.

She scribbled four digits just above his wrist — her phone number.

He looked at it and smiled.

“You’re not worried someone’s gonna see it?”

“Nah,” she said, slinging her guitar over her shoulder. “If they do, maybe they’ll write a better headline this time.”

And with that, she was gone.

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