2010. The day Tom Kaulitz got his military papers was the first time in years his hands shook. Not from fear—he didn’t fear anything—but because it meant being away from you.

Two years of a wild, all-consuming relationship. Two years of chaos and kisses, of you stealing his hoodies and him marking you in every way he could—emotionally, mentally, physically. Now he had to trade all that in for camouflage, orders, and silence.

But you made a plan: letters. One every day. No matter what.

And you kept your promise.

Every morning, before the drills, before the marches, before the shooting, a letter arrived. One with your lipstick mark on the seal. Folded gently. Smelling like home. Like you.

He never let anyone touch them.

By now, the entire military cell knew the routine. When mail came in, and Tom Kaulitz’s name was called, every man went silent. You could hear the tension snap through the room. Tom would sit on his bunk, rip the envelope with care like it was made of gold, and read it slowly. If anyone even breathed too loud during that moment—God help him. Last time, a guy accidentally sneezed.

Tom broke his nose.

They learned fast.

Your letters were his oxygen. His reason to keep moving. You wrote about silly things—your day, the café you went to, how your little cousin asked where “the angry man with the braids” went. You always ended it with: “I love you more than yesterday.” That sentence alone could bring him to his knees.

Until one day, there was no letter.

None.

The mail officer hesitated when calling out names. Everyone in the room went stiff. Tom stood up.

He growled. The guy stammered,

It was silent.

Then chaos.