Tom Kaulitz

♡Part 37♡

So much has been said about me over the years. People still talk about me, make rumors, and whisper when I walk past.

Jayla's basically my only friend now. She sneers and tells people to look away. Quinn left town. People kept making rumors about her and Jayla having to do with me going crazy. Unlike Jayla, Quinn couldn't deal with that.

Tomorrow's Thursday. Georg and Gustav are coming over to visit. Tom and Bill... not so sure. I'm hoping not I don't know how I'd act around them.

I open the door into my mom's bedroom.

It still smells like her. Her bed still has the same sheets from the last time she laid down on it. It's a bit messy though. My dad refuses to let go of her. Sometimes I hear him walking down the hall and going into her bedroom to sleep.

I miss mom a lot. We were very close and when she passed I went crazy. I didn't wanna accept the fact that she was gone so I made up crazy delusions in my head. I tried so hard to convince myself that she was still with me. that we were still connected in someway.

I walk into her bedroom and take in the scattered magazines across her desk and the books on her bedside table. my mom was a reader and also loved fashion. She would make outfits for my siblings and I to wear to parties or whatever.

I slowly walk over to her desk and flip through one of the magazines. Dust lifted through the pages as I turned them, the smell of old paper filling the air.

I stepped toward the closet. My finger is hovering over the handle before. Finally pulling it open. A faint trace of my mother's perfume lingered in the air mixing with the scent of old fabric rows of dresses unfinished, sketches line the space each one, a piece of a dream left behind.

My gaze landed on a dress I remembered—one I used to play in, drowning in fabric far too big for my small frame. Back then my mom would laugh, adjusting the hem promising that one day it would fit just right.

Now standing in the quiet surrounded by the echoes of what once was. I reached out and trace the delicate stitching with trembling fingers the weight of her absence pressed down, yet for a moment it felt like she was still here just beyond the fabric just out of reach.

I let out a slow sigh, my finger slipping away from the fabric as I stepped back, the room felt heavier now as if the memory has settled into the air around her. I turn my eyes drifting over the space one last time the scattered sketches that have finished dresses. Little pieces of my mother still lingering in every corner.

It felt kind of wrong to leave. It's like I'm closing the door on something I'm not ready to let go of, but I have to.

With one final glance, I swallowed the lump in my throat, step out, and quietly shut the door behind me.

I stand there for a moment outside her room, my hand still resting on the door knob, hesitant to let go. It felt final like closing the door meant closing a part of myself.

But this is what I need to do to let go. I nodded when the doctors told me I was holding on too tightly making things harder, but how do you just let go? Someone who is your whole world? How do you wake up and then decide to move forward when every step feels like leaving them behind.

I swallow hard, my fingers clenching for just a second before loosening.

She's not in there. She's not in the fabric or the sketches or the dresses she never got to finish.

The thought hit me all at once unexpected but true. My mom wasn't just in the things she left behind. She was in the way she saw the world, in the dreams she had passed down, and every stitch of passion she had woven into her work.