25. Bad excuses

What if this is all we are now? What if sex is the only thing left? The only piece of us that still fits?

I turn onto my side. Bill’s asleep. Peaceful. Unaware. And I’m here, wide awake, terrified that the only way we still connect is when our bodies do.

The thought circles and circles, refusing to let me go. If that’s all we are, what happens when even that stops working? Do we just fall apart completely? Or are we already falling apart, and I’m the only one who notices?

I hate myself for even thinking it. For doubting us. For doubting him. But the truth presses harder the longer I stare at him: I don’t know if I’m in love with him anymore, or if I’m just in love with the memory of what we used to be.


The next day as usual, Bill is already gone.
But I made a plan. I will not just accept this. We can make this work. We have too…

So I text him.
“Be home by six. I have a surprise xx”

I spent the whole day in the kitchen. Making his favourite food. I take a long shower, put on the nicest dress I have, the one that hugs my curves just right. And spent a ridiculous amount of time on my make up.

I decorate the table, light candles, wear the parfum I know Bill loves so much.

I look at the clock at the kitchen wall. 17:55. I sit down on the table, waiting.

18:05.

I look at my phone. Nothing.

I wait, and wait. My hands shake just a little as I open a bottle of wine, pouring a glass to calm the nerves.

I stand up, a glass of wine in my hand and walk toward the window. Maybe he is stuck in traffic?

When I look outside, I notice Tom’s car already on the driveway. Which means Tom is already home. So why isn’t Bill?

I call him. No answer. I text him. But the text stays unread.

I walk back into the kitchen, grab the bottle of wine, kick off my heels, and head outside onto the terrace.

Minutes blur into hours, and before I know it, the bottle is empty. My head feels light, my chest heavy. “Fuck this,” I whisper to myself.

I storm back inside. I yank my laptop from my bag, slam it onto the counter, and flip it open. I type, fast. And do the one thing I never thought I would…

"I am done, Bill Kaulitz. DONE!" I yell.

I snap the laptop shut and leave it on the counter. I walk up the stairs, leaving the kitchen untouched. The food and decoration still on the table, candles still lit.

I take off the dress I’d chosen so carefully, letting it fall to the floor.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my phone in hand. I try one last time. One last call

Straight to voicemail.

For a moment, I feel myself breaking. The silence… it might crush me. I want to scream, to tear the dress apart, to shatter every glass downstairs. But I don’t. I just sit here.


Bill:
I open the door and step inside. I drop my keys on the kitchen counter—and I stop.
The table is still set. Candles burned down to stubs, food untouched, wine glasses waiting.

My chest tightens. She did all this. For me. And I wasn’t here.

I don’t even have an excuse this time. Nothing explains this. Nothing makes it right.

I climb the stairs slowly. When I push open the bedroom door, I see her.
Curled on her side, phone still clutched in her hand. The dress she wore lies on the floor next to our bed.

I stand there in the doorway, staring.
I want to wake her. To tell her I’m sorry. To promise I’ll do better. But the words get stuck in my throat. So instead, I crawl into bed beside her.

I wrap my arm around her, pulling her closer. She inhales, then exhales. But she doesn’t wake up.

I have to make this right. I have to change. Do better. The album is almost finished. Just a few more days.


The next morning I make her breakfast. Get her her favourite flowers. Make the table look nice.

She appears in the doorway, hair messy, eyes heavy. I force a smile. “Morning,” I say softly. “I… made you breakfast.”

For a second, she just stands there. Looking at me, at the table, at the flowers. My heart beats in my chest.

Then she nods, slowly, and sits down. She doesn’t say much, just a quiet “thank you.”
It’s not forgiveness, not even close. But it’s something.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say carefully, the words catching in my throat. “I lost track of time.” As if that’s enough. As if it makes up for everything.

Her eyes stay fixed on her plate. “I called you.”
“My phone was on silent.” The excuse sounds weak the second it leaves my mouth.

She nods, lips pressed tight, still not looking at me. Then: “Tom was home around six.” Her tone sharpens, cutting straight through me. “What time did you get home?”

She finally looks at me, and the disappointment there is worse than anger. It’s colder.

I swallow, gripping my coffee like it might anchor me. “Late,” I manage. “Too late.”
She tilts her head, eyes still fixed on me. “That’s it? Late?” Her voice is quiet.

I want to explain—but I don’t know how. Nothing I say erases the fact that she sat here alone last night.

“I’m trying, Evi,” I say, softer now. “The album’s almost done. Just a few more days and I can—”

“Don’t, Bill.” she interrupts, her voice trembles slightly. “You’ve been saying that for weeks.”

She’s right. I’ve said it so many times it sounds like a script.

I lean forward, desperate. “This time I mean it.”
She shakes her head slowly, like she doesn’t want to hear it.

She stirs her coffee without drinking it, then looks up at me again, her eyes tired.
“I don’t need you to mean it,” she says quietly. “I need you to prove it.”

I reach across the table, wrapping my fingers gently around hers. “I promise, Evi. When the album is finally—”

My phone buzzes on the table, cutting me off. The screen lights up with Tom’s name.
Both our eyes snap to it.
She leans back, slipping her hand from mine, her expression folding into something I can’t quite name—hurt, distant.

“Seems like the band needs you,” she says flatly.
“Evi…” My voice breaks on her name.
“It’s okay, Bill. Go finish that album.” She stands, coffee in hand, moving past me toward the terrace without looking back.

I sit frozen, my chest aching, torn between chasing her and answering the phone. The screen lights up again, buzzing insistently.

I sigh, drag a hand through my hair, and swipe to answer. “Bad timing, Tom.”