The party was in full swing, music thumping through the walls, and you were well on your way to tipsy, then drunk, then absolutely wrecked. It was the usual scene for you, another night of neon lights, dizzy conversations, and blurring faces. You were used to these kinds of parties. You didn’t pay much attention to who was around, though you’d noticed familiar faces in the crowd, including Bill and his twin, Tom, leaning against the bar and surveying the scene.

You’d been determined to ignore them—especially Bill. He looked too good. Too much like the past you’d tried to leave behind. But somewhere between a shot of tequila and another round of something fruity and neon, you felt yourself slipping, surrendering to the energy of the night.

Someone had passed you a mic, cheering you on as you clambered onto a table, and before you could even think about it, you were belting out lyrics at the top of your lungs. The song wasn’t just any song; it was Monsoon—the anthem of Tokio Hotel, Bill’s song.

You didn’t care. Or maybe you cared too much, and the alcohol had made it easier to admit it.

As you sang, slurring half the words but nailing the melody, the crowd cheered, laughing and clapping along. Then you saw him. Bill was watching you, a look of amusement on his face. His laughter was barely contained

“Oh, come on, really?” Bill’s voice cut through the noise as you finished the last line, breathless. He clapped sarcastically, taking a few steps toward you, his grin widening. “Out of all the songs in the world, you had to pick Monsoon?”