“That’s me,” I say, settling into the back seat. Thankfully, the driver doesn’t seem to want to talk all that much; he just asks me about the flight, if I live in Charlotte. I give short answers. I don’t mean to be rude, but my mind is racing with everything that’s happening. I’m tired after an entire day of travel seemingly shoved into a few hours. From one end of the country to the other and then some.

I’m tired, but I feel buzzed. I don’t even know if I could sleep if I tried. I follow the map on my phone every step of the journey, cursing silently at the red lights and traffic that we manage to catch. Eventually, we get off at an exit, and onto another highway that stretches out with dark woods on either side of us. Right, Wyatt doesn’t technically live in Charlotte, just outside it in Mint Hill. We drive for a long time before getting off on another exit, and things start to look a little more residential as we pass by the stereotypical exit stops like the gas stations and McDonald’s. I’ve never been to this area before. My North Carolina experience begins and ends at Charlotte.

We drive for a little bit longer. I guess I never really pictured where Wyatt might call home, but the neighborhood looks, well … normal. Trees decorate the sidewalks, and the houses look nice, lights on in some, most of them dark. Cars are parked on the side of the street. There are two people walking a dog.

It seems so quiet, calm. These houses aren’t mansions; personality seems to radiate off them, even in the darkness. There are lawn decorations, flags, toys left out in front yards, swings, gorgeous flowers and trees, lawns trimmed imperfectly, some decisions that clash against each other.

I can tell that these are more than houses; these are homes.

“Here we are,” the driver says as he pulls up next to the car parked in front of the house. I double-check the number on the mailbox before I let the driver go. I watch as his taillights get farther and farther away, eventually turning a corner.

Then I’m alone, with nothing but my bag around my shoulders.

Just a boy, standing in front of the house of the person whose heart he broke, hoping that they’ll hear me out, listen to what I have to say.

I can do this.

I walk up the steps, the porch creaking under my feet. There are no lights to be found on the first floor, but one of the windows on the second floor is lit up. I can only hope that that’s their room.

I knock lightly, figuring that’s better than ringing the doorbell.

But I can’t hear anything on the other side. No one moving around, no one coming down any stairs.