The first time Lisha saw Bill Kaulitz on TV, she was twelve years old—curled up on the couch in their small living room in Cebu, flipping through channels when a music video for "Durch den Monsun" started playing. The screen lit up with a guy who looked like he'd stepped straight out of a fantasy book: platinum blonde hair spiked high and falling over one eye, dark smudged eyeliner that made his warm brown eyes look even deeper, and silver rings that covered almost every finger. His voice hit her like lightning—raw, powerful, and full of emotion she'd never heard in any other song.
By the end of the video, she was already searching for everything she could find about him and Tokio Hotel. Within a week, her bedroom walls were covered in posters she'd begged her mom to buy from the local bookstore. She saved up her allowance for months to get a life-sized cutout that stood in the corner of her room, like a silent guardian. She learned every lyric to every song, practiced his signature hair flip in the mirror until her neck hurt, and even started teaching herself guitar because he played one too.
Her friends would tease her sometimes—"You're obsessed, Lisha!"—but she didn't care. To her, Bill wasn't just a singer; he was proof that being different was okay. That you could wear makeup and style your hair however you wanted and still be amazing. When she felt lonely or like she didn't fit in at school, she'd put on her headphones, blast "Schrei," and feel like she had someone who understood.
So when her dad came home from work one Thursday evening and announced they were moving to Manila for his new job at a construction firm, Lisha's first reaction wasn't sadness about leaving her friends—it was panic about leaving her life as she knew it. What if her new school had no one who'd even heard of Tokio Hotel? What if they thought she was weird for liking a German band and styling her hair like their lead singer?
"Lisha, sweetheart, we'll make sure you're happy there," her mom said, noticing the way she'd gone pale, her hands clutching a worn-out magazine with Bill on the cover. "You can bring all your posters—we'll find a bigger wall for them in our new apartment."
Over the next month, packing felt like saying goodbye to pieces of herself. She carefully rolled up each poster, wrapping them in bubble wrap and labeling every one with a marker: "Bill – Concert 2005," "Bill – Magazine Shoot," "Bill – MTV Awards." She packed her guitar first, making sure it was tucked safely in its case with extra padding. Her favorite striped shirt—the one that looked just like something he'd wear—and her silver skull ring went into a special bag she kept with her at all times.
The day they drove to Manila felt endless. Lisha stared out the window as the familiar streets of Cebu faded into green countryside, her headphones on and "Monsoon" playing on repeat. She'd already looked up her new school—Quezon City High—and had searched every social media page she could find, hoping to spot someone wearing a Tokio Hotel shirt or with a profile picture of the band. Nothing.
When they pulled up to their new apartment in Project 8, Lisha barely noticed the space or the view from the window. She rushed straight to her bedroom, which was bigger than her old one, and spent the rest of the day putting up her posters. By sunset, every wall was covered—from the ceiling to just above the floor, there was no spot left uncovered. Her life-sized cutout stood proudly by her desk, and she'd even taped up string lights around it to make it glow like he was on stage.
That night, she lay in bed staring at the posters, her guitar resting against the wall beside her. "Please let me find someone who gets it," she whispered to the ceiling. "Please don't let me be alone there."
The morning of her first day at Quezon City High, she woke up at five AM—too nervous to sleep anymore. She pulled on her striped shirt, dark jeans, and her silver ring, then spent twenty minutes styling her hair with hairspray until it stood up just right. She packed her guitar case with extra picks and a notebook where she'd started writing her own songs, then slung it over her shoulder as she headed out the door.
Her dad drove her to school, pointing out landmarks along the way, but Lisha could barely hear him—her heart was racing so fast she thought it might jump out of her chest. When they pulled up to the school gates, she saw groups of students walking in, laughing and talking with their friends. Everyone looked so put-together, so sure of themselves. She felt like an imposter in her spiked hair and band-inspired outfit.
"Hey," her dad said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "You've got this. Be yourself—they're gonna love you."
She forced a smile and got out of the car, gripping her guitar case so tight her knuckles turned white. As she walked through the gates, the noise of the school hit her—kids shouting, bikes ringing, music playing from someone's phone. She kept her head down, trying to find her way to the main building, when a voice called out from behind her.
"Wait! You must be Lisha!"
She turned around to see a girl with curly black hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing a bright yellow shirt and denim shorts, walking toward her with a huge smile. The girl had paint stains on her hands and a sketchbook tucked under her arm.
"I'm Mia—we're in the same class! Ms. Santos told us you'd be joining us today," she said, linking her arm through Lisha's before she could even respond. "I was waiting by the gate 'cause I figured you'd be new and lost—trust me, this school is a maze. Oh, and I have to show you something—you are not gonna believe this!"
Lisha felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. Mia seemed nice, at least. "Show me what?" she asked, her voice quieter than she'd intended.
Mia grinned and pulled her along faster. "Let's just say… you're not the only one around here who's into certain German bands. You'll see!"