I opened up the door to my hotel room, jet lagged. It was only about 11 a.m. now, but I had trouble sleeping on the plane ride there.

I needed a place to put my things, so I set everything down in the room, and called for a cab to take me to Peter's hometown, which was about a half an hour away. 

I was nervous on the drive other there, anxiously toying with the note he'd left that obtained his address. I started to think maybe I shouldn't do this; but then again, he left his address for a reason, and for a certain person. Me. 

After what seemed a lot longer than it was, the cab pulled over, and the driver rudely asked for his money, which I quickly handed to him, and then got out. 

I walked for a little while, carefully eyeing each address of all the nice, 19th century homes Connecticut seemed to harbor. I eventually stopped in front of a beautiful old home with trees engulfing it. It adorned the same number as the one on the paper I had been clinching nervously in my hand; he was this close to me. 

All I had to do was knock on the door. 

I knocked, and after a few minutes, knocked a second time, then a third.. No reply. 

For some reason, a tear streamed down my face. I started to walk away when I heard the door unlatch and open.

I slowly turned around, crying even more. I couldn't seem to hold it back for some reason. 

Peter didn't say anything, he just gave me a look of astonishment. 

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have acted that way that night. You moved because of me and I'm a terrible per-" 

Peter's lips put an end to my pathetic apology.