Page 29 of First Echo
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T he door clicked shut behind Madeline, leaving a strange emptiness in the room that seemed to expand with each passing second.
I stood there, frozen in the same spot where our conversation had ended so abruptly, my mind replaying her hasty exit like a scene from a movie I couldn't quite understand.
I should go check on Sam.
Her words hung in the air, an excuse so transparent it almost hurt. One moment we'd been sharing something real—something that felt dangerously close to connection—and the next, she was gone, fleeing whatever had passed between us like it was something to be feared.
I moved to my bed and sank down onto the edge, my injured hand throbbing dully as a physical reminder of everything that had happened today.
It had been the strangest day of my life—punching Julian, arguing with Madeline, then somehow ending up at a bar with her, laughing and talking like we'd been friends for years instead of reluctant roommates who barely tolerated each other.
I lay back, staring up at the ceiling, watching shadows from the trees outside dance across the textured surface.
Every moment from the evening played in my mind like fragments of a dream I couldn't quite believe was real.
The way Madeline had leaned forward when she laughed, the slight brush of her fingers against mine when she reached for her drink, how her voice had softened when she talked about her childhood memory with Lucía.
"It's not a big deal," I whispered to the empty room. "She's just... different when she's away from her friends."
But it felt like a big deal. It felt like witnessing something rare and precious—Madeline Hayes without her armor, without the practiced smile and calculated words.
Just Madeline, with her love of art and her surprising vulnerability and her genuine laugh that seemed to light up something long-dormant inside me.
I rolled onto my side, frustration creeping in around the edges of these confusing thoughts.
"Why does she always have to leave like that?" I muttered, plucking at a loose thread on the comforter. "Why did she look disappointed when she walked out? Did I do something wrong?"
The questions multiplied, each one spawning three more until my head felt too full to contain them all.
I reached for my book—my faithful escape route—but found myself staring at the same paragraph over and over, the words blurring into meaningless shapes as my mind refused to focus on anything but the lingering scent of Madeline's perfume in the air.
With a sigh, I set the book aside and stared at the ceiling again.
My thoughts drifted to Sam—perfect, golden Sam with his easy smile and unwavering loyalty.
Of course she went to him. He was her boyfriend, after all.
They had the perfect relationship to match their perfect social status, sharing private moments and intimate conversations I could never be part of.
"That's what normal people do," I told myself. "Go to their boyfriends when they feel weird or confused."
A hollow feeling spread through my chest, an ache so familiar it was almost a comfort in its predictability. "So why does it feel like she just walked out on me?"
I'd been here before—this moment of almost-connection that slipped away before it could fully form.
It was the story of my life after Mom died.
Friends who couldn't handle my grief, who drifted away with promises to call that never materialized.
The girl from my English class who'd invited me to her birthday party, then spent the whole night talking to everyone but me.
My dad, physically present but emotionally absent, lost in his own pain.
Everyone always left before I could find the words to make them stay.
The memory of my fourteenth birthday rose unbidden—the first one after Mom died.
I'd spent the whole day waiting for someone, anyone, to remember.
By evening, when even my dad had forgotten, I'd blown out a single candle on a cupcake I'd bought myself, making a wish I knew wouldn't come true: Please don't let me be alone forever.
I pushed the memory away, sitting up with sudden determination. This was ridiculous. Madeline Hayes was not someone whose absence should hurt me. We weren't even friends, not really. One nice evening didn't erase years of dislike.
The room felt suddenly stifling, too small to contain the storm of emotions churning inside me. I needed to do something, anything, to quiet my racing thoughts.
Sleep. I needed sleep. Tomorrow would reset everything, return us to our normal dynamic—me the quiet outcast, her the untouchable queen. Tonight was just a momentary detour, a strange blip in our otherwise predictable hostility.
I stood up, the floorboards creaking softly beneath my feet.
The silence of the room pressed against my ears—no humming air conditioner, no distant traffic, just the soft whisper of my own breathing and the muffled sounds of the resort settling into its nighttime rhythm.
I moved to my suitcase, pulled out my sleep shirt, and placed it on the bed.
I reached for the hem of my hoodie, tugging it over my head, the soft fabric brushing against my skin as it came off. I stood there in just my bra and sweatpants, goosebumps rising on my arms in the cool night air.
The sound of my hoodie hitting the floor seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. I could hear my own heartbeat, steady but somehow prominent, as if the world had narrowed to just this—my body in this space, existing in this moment of strange, suspended anticipation.
I stretched, feeling the pleasant pull in my muscles, a reminder of the long day on the slopes. My back was to the door as I reached for the clean t-shirt I'd laid out earlier. The cool air caressed my skin, raising more goosebumps along my spine and across my shoulders.
There was a flutter in my stomach, a strange sense of expectancy that made no sense. I was alone. Nothing was about to happen. And yet, my body seemed to be waiting for something my mind couldn't name.
The sound of the door opening caught me completely off guard.
"Forgot my—"
I turned instinctively toward the voice, my heart leaping into my throat as I found myself face to face with Madeline. Her sentence cut off abruptly, the last word—"phone"—hanging unspoken in the air between us for several long seconds before she finally pushed it past her lips.
Her eyes widened, her gaze dropping from my face to my exposed upper body with an expression I couldn't quite read.
It wasn't her usual judgmental stare, the one that made me feel like I was being measured and found wanting.
This was something else entirely—something that made heat rise to my cheeks despite the cool air on my skin.
Time seemed to slow, stretching each second into an eternity. I could see the slight parting of her lips, the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing quickened.
I was suddenly, acutely aware of my body in a way I hadn't been moments before—the defined muscles of my abdomen that I'd earned through countless hours at the gym, the toned lines of my shoulders and arms that most people never saw beneath my usual layers of clothing.
"Are you staring at me?" The words left my mouth before I could stop them, landing somewhere between accusation and amusement.
Madeline blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a trance. "No, I'm not."
A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth, a strange confidence washing over me. "Yeah, you were." I couldn't resist adding, "Listen, I'm not judging you. I'd stare at me too."
The flush that crept up her neck to her cheeks was fascinating—Madeline Hayes, flustered was a sight I never thought I'd see.
She moved then, stepping into the room toward the nightstand where her phone lay.
To reach it, she had to walk past me, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of her perfume, something floral and expensive that seemed to wrap around my senses.
We stood just inches apart, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her, could see the slight tremble in her hands as she reached for her phone.
Something electric hung in the air between us, a tension unlike anything I'd experienced before—not the antagonistic friction of our earlier encounters, but something deeper, more primal.
Something that made my heart race and my breath catch in my throat.
I could hear each shallow breath she took, feel the slight disturbance in the air between us.
The world outside this room—the resort, the mountain, everything—seemed to fade away until there was nothing but this moment, this proximity, this unbearable tension stretching between us like a thread pulled too tight.
Her eyes met mine, blue depths swirling with confusion and something else, something that mirrored the strange ache building in my chest. Her lips parted slightly, and for one wild, irrational moment, I wondered what they would taste like.
"I should go," she whispered, her voice barely audible even in the quiet room.
And then she was gone again, the door closing behind her with a soft click that somehow echoed in the emptiness she left behind.
I stood there, frozen, my t-shirt still clutched forgotten in my hand. What had just happened? What was this feeling that seemed to hollow out my chest, leaving only a strange, aching hunger in its place?
Is this what friendship feels like?
But even as the thought formed, I knew it wasn't quite right. Friends didn't make your skin burn where their gaze touched it. Friends didn't leave you breathless with just their proximity. Friends didn't make you wonder about the softness of their lips.
I pulled on my t-shirt with trembling hands, trying to steady my racing thoughts.
This was ridiculous. This was Madeline Hayes —the girl who'd looked down on people like me for years, who'd only recently stopped treating me like something stuck to the bottom of her designer shoes.
Whatever I was feeling was just... confusion.
The unfamiliarity of having someone break through my isolation, of allowing myself to care even a little about another person.
It wasn't her specifically. It couldn't be.
I moved to the window, gazing out at the snow-covered landscape, the moonlight turning everything to silver and shadow.
Where had she gone? Back to Sam, obviously.
The golden boy, the perfect boyfriend. I pictured them together—his hands in her hair, his lips on hers—and felt something twist painfully in my stomach.
Are they having sex right now?
The thought rose unbidden, unwelcome, sending a wave of something that felt disturbingly like jealousy through me. Why should I care what Madeline did with her boyfriend? Why should the image of them together make me feel like I'd swallowed broken glass?
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to extinguish the heat that had risen to my face.
Outside, a few late-night revelers trudged through the snow, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass.
Normal people, having normal fun, without this confusing storm raging inside them.
I turned away from the window, anger at myself rising like a tide.
This was exactly why I kept people at a distance.
Caring about people only led to pain. They either left you or disappointed you—or both.
It was foolish to think Madeline would be any different.
She had her perfect life, her perfect boyfriend, her perfect friends.
Whatever momentary connection we'd shared tonight was just that—momentary.
A curious detour from her real life, nothing more.
Tomorrow, she'd probably be back to being Madeline Hayes, queen bee. And I'd be back to being nobody.
I slipped into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin like a shield against the confusion and hurt swirling inside me.
I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come, but every time I did, I saw her face—the way she'd looked at me when she walked in, like I was something unexpected, something that shook her carefully constructed world.
She'd looked at me like I was something she'd never seen before.
Hours passed, the soft ticking of the bedside clock marking time in the darkness. I drifted in and out of restless dreams, always waking to the same empty room, the other bed still perfectly made, untouched.
Where was she? Had she stayed with Sam the entire night? The questions circled endlessly, refusing to let me rest.
I thought about all the times people had walked away from me—the friends who couldn't handle my grief after Mom died, the classmates who stopped inviting me places, the father who was physically present but emotionally absent, lost in his own pain. Everyone always left in the end.
Why had I let myself believe, even for a moment, that Madeline might be different?
I curled onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, making myself small against the vastness of these feelings I couldn't name.
My heart was still pounding, hours after that moment of electric tension.
I was confused, exhausted, and something else—something that felt dangerously close to longing.
"I wish she hadn't walked out," I whispered to the darkness, the admission barely audible even to my own ears.
The darkness offered no answers, just the hollow ache of another person slipping through my fingers like snow melting in the palm of my hand—there for a moment, then gone, leaving nothing but the cold memory of their brief warmth.
Outside, the moon tracked its path across the sky, indifferent to the small human dramas playing out beneath its silver light.
And inside, I lay awake, wondering when I'd become the kind of person who cared where Madeline Hayes spent her nights, and why the thought of her with someone else felt like a wound I hadn't seen coming.