The first week of January 2005 was already moving at lightning speed.
Tokio Hotel had just signed on for their biggest tour yet—five whole months, nearly nonstop shows across Europe and Asia. The schedule was brutal. Rehearsals, photoshoots, press conferences—it was all stacked.
“It’s insane,” Tom said, slumped on the couch, flipping through the tour calendar, his phone vibrating every few seconds.
“Five months is... forever,” Isadora muttered, sitting cross-legged on the floor, chewing her thumbnail.
They were in Tom’s room. Posters of Linkin Park, Tupac, and Korn covered the walls. His guitar rested nearby, and the air smelled faintly of Axe body spray and teenage boy.
“I wish I could pack you in my guitar case,” Tom half-joked, running his fingers through his dreads.
“If you did, I’d probably come out broken,” she laughed softly—but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Over the next few days, they lived like they were racing a clock.
Late-night walks down quiet Berlin streets, Tom wearing a hoodie and sunglasses even at 9 PM. Home-recorded videos on Tom’s old camcorder. Photos on Isadora’s flip phone, pixelated but real.
One night, they even broke onto the rooftop of an old warehouse, lying on a tattered blanket and watching the stars.
“What if we forget each other?” Isadora whispered, voice almost lost to the wind.
“Not happening,” Tom said firmly. “I’ll call you every night. No matter where I am. Even if I’m in the middle of nowhere with only a Nokia brick and bad service.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
They sealed it with a kiss under the frozen moonlight.
The night before the band left, the whole Phantom Youth crew came over to say goodbye.
Pizza boxes were stacked high. MTV played in the background—some rerun of TRL. Bill was trying on different sunglasses in the mirror while Nina made a mixtape for the tour bus.
But Isadora and Tom barely left each other’s side.
She wore one of his oversized hoodies. He couldn’t stop staring at her like she was going to disappear the second he blinked.
“Take care of my idiot brother,” Bill teased, slapping Isadora gently on the shoulder. “He’s a lovesick wreck when you're not around.”
“Noted,” she smirked, wiping away a tear quickly.
At the airport, everything felt too bright. Too loud. Too fast.
Tom pulled her aside before the crowd of fans, press, and managers swallowed him whole.
“I hate this part,” he said, holding her face between his palms.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” she whispered.
“Write to me.”
“You better write back.”
He kissed her like he didn’t care who saw. Like it was their first and last kiss. Her hands fisted his hoodie, refusing to let go until his name was called.
“Tom, we have to go!”
One last look.
One last smile.
One last “I love you.”
And then he was gone.
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...
