Page 36 of First Echo

Time seemed to slow, stretching the moment into an eternity.

In the mirror, our eyes met, reflecting something raw and unguarded that made my heart stumble in its rhythm.

We were so close that I could feel the warmth radiating from her body, could see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat, could count every one of her eyelashes if I wanted to.

With a click that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room, the clasp fastened. But I didn't step away immediately, caught in the gravity of whatever was happening between us. For a breathless moment, we simply stood there, connected by something invisible but undeniable.

Her eyes held mine in the reflection, a question in their depths that I wasn't sure how to answer.

The blue of her irises seemed deeper somehow, darkened by something that made my skin feel too tight, my breath too shallow.

I watched as her lips parted slightly, as if she might speak, might finally give voice to the tension that had been building between us since that first night she'd walked in on me changing.

Then reality reasserted itself. I stepped back, breaking the spell, putting necessary distance between us. The mirror reflected two girls, standing apart but somehow still connected, both pretending not to feel what pulsed in the air between them.

"Thanks," Madeline said softly, her eyes still holding mine in the reflection. "For doing that. Even though you apparently hate me now."

The accusation stung, not because it was cruel but because it was so far from the truth. I shook my head slightly, my voice low but clear. "I don't hate you."

She turned around then, facing me directly, her eyes searching mine. "I just don't know what you want from me, Madeline."

The question caught her off guard—I could see it in the momentary widening of her eyes, the slight parting of her lips. She looked vulnerable suddenly, stripped of her usual confidence. But instead of softening, she straightened, her walls slamming back into place with an almost audible click.

"Nothing," she said, her voice brittle. "I don't want anything from you."

But her voice broke slightly on the last word, betraying her. We both heard it—that crack in her perfect facade, that glimpse of something real beneath the surface. For a second, she looked almost panicked, as if she'd given away something precious and couldn't take it back.

I held her gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable, searching for something I couldn't name. Then, without another word, I turned and walked to the door.

My chest felt tight, my hands trembling with the effort of restraint. I wanted to turn back, to shake her, to demand honesty instead of these half-truths and evasions. To ask why she'd looked at me like that if she truly wanted nothing.

Instead, I pulled the door open and stepped through, letting it close behind me with a quiet finality.

In the hallway, I leaned against the wall for a moment, eyes closed, breath coming too quick.

The lingering warmth of her skin against my fingertips felt like a brand, a reminder of something I couldn't have.

The scent of her perfume clung to me, an invisible thread still connecting us despite the distance I was trying so desperately to maintain.

"Fine," I whispered to the empty corridor. "You don't want anything from me? You won't get anything."

I straightened, smoothing my hands down the front of my blue blouse, adjusting the neckline with a confidence I didn't entirely feel. I could do this. I could walk into that dining hall alone, could sit through dinner pretending I was fine, could maintain the walls I'd spent years perfecting.

The dining hall was already filling with students and faculty when I arrived, the noise level rising with each new group that entered.

For the last mandatory dinner of the trip, they'd made an effort to create a more formal atmosphere.

Tables were arranged differently than usual, with white cloths and centerpieces of pine and winter berries.

Soft music played from hidden speakers, lending the space an air of celebration for our final night.

I found an empty table in the corner, as far from the main entrance as possible, and sat down.

My hands still trembled slightly, an aftereffect of whatever had passed between Madeline and me in front of that mirror.

I curled them around the water glass at my place setting, the cool surface anchoring me to the present.

The room continued to fill, students arriving in groups, laughing and talking with the easy confidence of people who knew exactly where they belonged.

I kept my eyes on my water glass, not wanting to see when Madeline entered with her friends, with Sam.

Not wanting to watch as they claimed their rightful place at the center of everything.

"Mind if I sit here?"

I looked up, surprised to find Luca standing beside my table, a hesitant smile on his face. He gestured to the empty chairs surrounding me. "Everywhere else is filling up."

I glanced around the room, noticing for the first time how crowded it had become. Most tables were indeed occupied, though there were still scattered empty seats. Luca could easily have joined another group. The fact that he'd chosen my solitary table was a deliberate choice, not a necessity.

"Go ahead," I said after a moment, nodding to the chair across from me.

His smile widened as he sat down, dropping his napkin into his lap with casual ease. "Thanks. Not really in the mood for a crowd tonight, you know?"

I did know, better than he could imagine. But I just nodded, taking a sip of my water.

"That was seriously impressive today," he continued, seemingly undeterred by my lack of verbal response. "The race. You made it look effortless."

"Thanks," I said, setting my glass down carefully. "Been doing it a long time."

"It shows." He leaned forward slightly, his expression friendly but not pushy. "Been snowboarding since I was twelve, and I've never managed to make it look that smooth."

The conversation flowed more easily than I would have expected, touching on snowboarding techniques, favorite mountains, the best conditions for different types of riding. Luca was knowledgeable without being condescending, enthusiastic without overwhelming. It was... nice. Simple. Uncomplicated.

Everything that was happening with Madeline wasn't.

I was just beginning to relax, just starting to enjoy the easy back-and-forth, when I felt it—a prickling awareness at the base of my neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

I didn't need to look up to know who had entered the dining hall.

My body seemed attuned to Madeline's presence, recognizing it on some primal level before my conscious mind could catch up.

When I finally did glance toward the entrance, there she was—standing with her usual group, her black dress making her blonde hair seem even brighter in the warm lighting of the room.

Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, softening her features in a way that made her look younger, more approachable.

Sam stood beside her, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back, his head bent as he listened to something Julian was saying.

For a brief moment, her eyes met mine across the crowded room. Something flashed in her gaze—surprise, perhaps, at seeing me engaged in conversation with Luca. Then her expression smoothed, returning to the practiced indifference she wore so well.

I turned back to Luca, determined not to let Madeline's arrival affect me. "You were saying about Whistler?" I prompted, referring to the conversation we'd been having about ski resorts.

He picked up the thread easily, telling me about a trip he'd taken with his family the previous winter.

I nodded in the right places, asked appropriate questions, but part of my awareness remained fixed on Madeline, tracking her progress through the room by the sound of her laugh, the flash of blonde in my peripheral vision.

She and her group settled at a table on the opposite side of the room, far enough away that I couldn't hear their conversation but close enough that I was constantly aware of her presence.

It felt like a physical thing, stretching across the space between us, pulling at my attention no matter how I tried to focus on Luca.

"It's nice," Luca said suddenly, breaking into my thoughts. "Talking to someone who doesn't make everything feel like it's about to explode."

I blinked, caught off guard by the observation. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged, a small smile playing around his lips. "Just that you're... straightforward. No games, no drama. It's refreshing."

The irony of his statement wasn't lost on me.

If only he knew the storm that had been raging inside me since Madeline had grabbed my wrist after the race.

If only he could see how her mere presence across the room was making my skin feel too tight, my breath too shallow.

Nothing about me felt straightforward or drama-free in that moment.

But that wasn't his fault. And the fact that he saw me as uncomplicated was actually something of a relief—a reminder that there was still a version of Brooke Winters that existed outside the confusing orbit of Madeline Hayes.

"Thanks," I said, offering him a smile that felt more genuine than any I'd managed all day. "I appreciate that."

As I smiled at Luca, I felt it again—that prickling awareness, stronger now. I glanced up reflexively, my eyes finding Madeline's across the room. She was watching us, her expression unreadable. Our gazes locked for a long moment, something electric passing between us even at this distance.

Then Sam said something to her, drawing her attention back to their table. But not before I'd seen it—the flash of something in her eyes that looked dangerously like jealousy.

She can't stand seeing me happy when she's not the reason for it.