Page 32 of First Echo

brOOKE

M orning light filtered through a gap in the curtains, drawing a sharp line across my face that finally pulled me from a fitful sleep.

I blinked, disoriented, my body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes from a night spent more in thought than in dreams. The events of the previous evening clung to me like a shadow I couldn't shake—Madeline's hasty exit, her return, the moment frozen in time when her eyes had traveled over my skin with an intensity that still burned in my memory.

I rolled over, half-expecting to find her bed empty. But there she was, a tangle of blonde hair against the pillow, her breathing deep and even in the quiet room. She'd come back. Sometime in the night, she'd returned, slipping in while I was asleep.

The space between our beds might as well have been an ocean.

Nothing happened last night, but it felt like everything changed.

At least to me. She still left. Even after that moment—her standing way too close, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t name.

Even after staring at me like that. I told her during one of our tutoring sessions that I went to the gym and she didn’t believe me. I bet she believed me last night .

I dressed quickly in the bathroom, methodically preparing for another day on the mountain.

Brush teeth. Wash face. Hair up in a messy bun.

Base layers, then snow pants, a thermal shirt, and my favorite hoodie.

The ritual was comforting in its familiarity, a stark contrast to the unfamiliar territory I'd found myself in with Madeline.

When I emerged, she hadn't moved, her form still and peaceful beneath the covers.

I allowed myself one brief moment to look at her—really look at her.

The golden hair splayed across the pillow, the soft curve of her cheek, the slight parting of her lips.

Something twisted in my chest, an ache I didn't want to name.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered to myself, so quietly the words barely existed. "None of this matters."

I gathered my gear and slipped out the door, closing it with barely a click behind me. The hallway stretched empty before me, the resort still quiet in these early hours. Perfect. Solitude was what I needed—what I'd always needed. What made today any different?

The dining hall was nearly deserted, just a few early risers nursing coffee and planning their day. I loaded my plate with eggs and toast, fuel for the slopes, and settled at an empty table by the window. Outside, the mountain waited, pristine and patient, offering the escape I desperately craved.

I ate mechanically, barely tasting the food, my mind replaying last night's scene in endless variation. The look in Madeline's eyes when she'd walked in on me—surprise, yes, but something else too. Something that had made my skin feel too tight, my heart beating a strange rhythm against my ribs.

And then she'd left. Again. Run back to Sam, perfect, golden Sam with his easy smile and unwavering devotion. The thought of them together sent another twist through my chest, sharper this time, edged with something that felt dangerously like jealousy.

"You're being ridiculous," I muttered, stabbing at my eggs with unnecessary force. "She's Madeline Hayes. She has a boyfriend. She has friends. People like her don't—"

Don't what? Spend time with people like me? Care about people like me? Choose people like me?

The truth hung in the air, unspoken but undeniable: people always leave.

People after Mom died, gradually drifting away when my grief became too heavy a burden.

My father, physically present but emotionally adrift in his own sorrow.

Even teachers, who'd once praised my intelligence, now treated me with the careful distance reserved for fragile things.

"I'm not looking for her," I insisted to myself as I scanned the dining hall for what must have been the tenth time. "I'm just... observing."

But she wasn't there. Of course she wasn't. She was probably still asleep, or maybe with Sam, or with her friends—anywhere but here with me. The thought shouldn't have bothered me. It shouldn't have felt like a stone settling in the pit of my stomach.

I finished breakfast and headed for the slopes, strapping on my board with practiced efficiency. The mountain beckoned, offering its reliable comfort—the rush of wind, the bite of cold air, the perfect communion of body and board and snow. Here, at least, I knew exactly who I was.

The first run was cleansing, the second exhilarating.

By the third, I'd found my rhythm, carving clean lines through fresh powder, my body remembering its purpose.

But even as I flew down the mountain, a part of my mind remained tethered to the resort, to room 217, to the girl who'd looked at me like I was something she'd never seen before.

I found myself scanning the slopes, the lift lines, searching for a glimpse of blonde hair, a flash of that distinctive designer jacket. Not intentionally—it was more like a reflex, an involuntary response my body had developed without my permission.

"I wasn't looking for her," I told the empty chairlift beside me. "I just... noticed she wasn't there."

The mountain didn't answer, indifferent to my small human concerns.

By midday, my legs were burning pleasantly with exertion, but my mind was still caught in its relentless cycle. Where was she? With Sam, obviously. That's who she was comfortable with. That's who she trusted. That's who she chose.

"Why wouldn't she choose him over me?" The words slipped out, barely audible over the whoosh of snow beneath my board.

A memory surfaced: standing alone in the school hallway after Mom's funeral, watching as people whispered and averted their eyes, unsure how to approach the girl whose mother had died. The acute sense of being suddenly, irreversibly different.

I'd learned then what I was relearning now: people leave. They always leave. Opening yourself up only creates more opportunities for abandonment.

"I should've known better," I muttered, anger rising like a tide, hot and clarifying. "I always do this—I let myself believe someone might stay, and they never do."

The anger felt good, familiar. Better than the hollow ache that had taken up residence beneath my ribs.

Better than acknowledging the truth: that I'd allowed myself to hope for something impossible.

That for a brief, irrational moment, I'd believed Madeline Hayes might actually see me—might choose to see me—when no one else had bothered to look in years.

By early afternoon, the anger had calcified into something hard and protective, a shell I could hide behind.

I was furious with Madeline for making me care, for showing me glimpses of someone worth knowing before retreating back to her perfect life.

But mostly, I was furious with myself for falling for it, for believing anything could be different.

Needing space, needing air that didn't feel heavy with disappointment, I veered off toward a quiet bench near the lower lift—a forgotten corner where the general crowd rarely ventured.

I unclipped my board, dropped my helmet beside me, and simply breathed, letting the cold air fill my lungs until it hurt.

The mountains stretched before me, vast and indifferent to human drama. I'd always found comfort in their stoic presence, their reminder that my problems were insignificant against their ancient timeline. Today, though, even they couldn't quiet the storm inside me.

"Hey," a voice broke through my reverie. "You're seriously good."

I looked up, startled. A boy stood a few feet away, snowboard tucked under one arm, curly dark hair escaping from beneath a gray beanie. His goggles rested on his forehead, revealing eyes the color of amber. I recognized him vaguely—maybe from the cafeteria or a shared class—but we'd never spoken.

"What?" I asked, the word coming out more abruptly than I'd intended.

If he noticed my tone, he didn't show it. "I saw you earlier, on the black diamond, right? That run's brutal. You carved through it like it was nothing."

I shrugged, brushing snow off my gloves in a gesture meant to appear casual. "Been riding since I was ten."

He grinned, shifting his snowboard to one hand. "Well, it shows." There was a pause, a brief assessment. "I'm Luca, by the way."

I hesitated, weighing the effort of social interaction against the desperate need to be anywhere but inside my own head. Finally, I pulled off a glove and shook his offered hand. "...Brooke."

"Cool to meet you." His grin deepened, taking on a teasing quality that wasn't entirely unwelcome. "My group ditched me for hot chocolate and selfies. Not mad about it, though—I got to end up here with you."

I stared at him, momentarily at a loss. Was he flirting with me? The realization was so unexpected I almost laughed. When was the last time someone had bothered to flirt with me? When was the last time I'd even noticed if they had?

He nodded toward the slope. "You racing later?"

"What race?"

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "You didn't hear? There's a student race after lunch. Nothing official, just for fun. You should totally enter."

I shook my head instinctively, the thought of crowds and attention making my skin crawl. "I don't do crowds."

Luca shrugged, an easy acceptance that somehow didn't feel dismissive. "Fair. But you'd probably smoke everyone out there." Another pause, his eyes meeting mine with unexpected directness. "Just saying… it'd be kinda fun to watch you win."

I didn't respond immediately. Part of me wanted to shut this down, to retreat back into the safe solitude I'd cultivated so carefully. But another part—a part I barely recognized—was tired of hiding, tired of being forgotten.

"Maybe," I heard myself say, the word hanging between us like a tentative bridge.

His smile widened, genuine and warm. "Yeah?"