Page 46 of First Echo

MADELINE

T ime melted away in the small clearing, the world beyond the snow-laden trees ceasing to exist. After our final toboggan run, we'd collapsed into a tangled heap, laughing and breathless, neither of us willing to break the spell by suggesting we return to reality.

Now we lay side by side on the upturned sled, my head resting on Brooke's shoulder, her arm wrapped around me as if she'd always held me like this, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The adrenaline of our runs had faded, replaced by a different kind of exhilaration—quieter but no less potent.

I could still taste Brooke's chapstick on my lips, still feel the ghost of her touch on my skin, still hear the sound of her laughter echoing in my ears.

My body felt alive in a way it never had before, every nerve ending hyperaware of her presence beside me.

It was perfect. Utterly, completely perfect.

And that's what scared me most.

Perfect things don't last—not in my experience.

Perfect things are fragile, easily shattered, impossible to maintain.

I'd spent my whole life cultivating an image of perfection, and I knew better than anyone how exhausting, how hollow it could be.

What if this was just another illusion, another performance that would eventually crumble under the weight of reality?

What if I don't deserve this?

What if I can't be what she needs?

The questions circled in my mind like vultures, threatening to consume the joy I'd found in Brooke's arms. I'd spent so long being who everyone else wanted me to be—the perfect daughter, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect queen bee—that I wasn't sure I even knew who I really was anymore.

How could I offer myself to someone else when I barely understood myself?

I shifted slightly, turning to look at Brooke, studying her profile in the winter sunlight.

Her dark hair had escaped from her beanie in places, falling across her forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to brush it back.

Her cheeks were flushed with cold, her breath forming small clouds in the air with each exhale.

I'd never seen anyone more beautiful, more real, more utterly captivating.

"So... what do we do now?" I asked, my voice softer than I'd intended, betraying my uncertainty.

Brooke glanced over, one arm propped on the sled rail, her expression relaxed yet attentive. "We go back. Change. Pretend we didn't almost flip a sled and die," she said, the corner of her mouth quirking up in that half-smile that made my stomach flutter.

I gave a weak laugh, shaking my head slightly. "That's not what I meant."

A beat of silence stretched between us, charged with everything unsaid. I took a deep breath, gathering my courage.

"I meant... us."

Brooke didn't move, but I felt her attention sharpen, felt the subtle shift in her posture as she braced herself. Her voice dropped slightly, becoming more careful, more measured. "You tell me."

The ball was in my court. Of course it was. After everything that had happened between us—the arguments, the tutoring sessions, the tension that had finally snapped last night in a rush of desperate kisses and searching hands—it was only fair that she wanted clarity.

I looked down at my gloves, picking at a loose thread, swallowing against the fear crawling up my throat.

”I don't know what I am," I admitted, the words feeling rough and unpolished.

"Like... I've never thought about girls that way before. And now all I can think about is you . But I don't know if that means I'm gay, or bi, or if I've just completely lost my mind."

I laughed, but it cracked in the middle, betraying the emotion behind it.

”I don't want to screw this up because I'm confused," I added quietly, finally voicing the fear that had been gnawing at me since I woke up this morning, since I felt the weight of Brooke's absence in my bed, since I realized how desperately I wanted her back there.

Brooke was quiet for a second, considering my words. Her gaze was steady, unflinching, even as I struggled to meet it.

"You don't need to know what you are," she said finally, her voice gentle but firm.

"You just need to know what you feel."

I looked up, something in her tone drawing my eyes to hers. She wasn't smiling now, her expression serious, almost vulnerable. Her voice stayed steady, but I noticed her fingers curling slightly against the sled, as if she was trying to keep herself still, to maintain control.

" Love isn't a label," she continued, the word 'love' hanging in the air between us, heavy with implication. "It's a choice. A terrifying, inconvenient, impossible choice. And I'd rather be chosen by someone who's scared than ignored by someone who's sure."

I blinked hard, sudden emotion burning behind my eyes.

Her words cut straight through my defenses, laying bare fears I hadn't fully articulated even to myself.

She saw me—really saw me—in a way no one else ever had.

Not my parents with their rigid expectations, not my friends with their superficial concerns, not even Sam with his genuine affection.

Brooke saw past the image to the messy, uncertain girl beneath, and somehow, impossibly, she still wanted me.

"But what if I figure it out and I'm not what you need?" I asked, the question barely above a whisper.

Brooke held my gaze for a long moment, something fierce and tender warring in her expression.

"Then we'll deal with it if it happens," she said finally.

"I'm not here because you're perfect, Maddie. I'm here because you're real . And because, for once, I don't want to run away from something that actually matters."

The nickname sent a warm flutter through my chest, somehow more intimate than anything we'd shared in the darkness of our room. Coming from her lips, it felt like a gift, a claim, a bridge between who I pretended to be and who I actually was.

"Brooke..." I whispered, unable to articulate the swell of emotion her words had caused.

She looked away, her jaw tightening slightly in that way I'd come to recognize as her trying to maintain control, to not show too much vulnerability.

"I'm not asking you to fix anything," she said, her voice rougher now.

"I just—I want something that doesn't feel like I'm holding my breath the whole time, waiting for it to end."

Silence settled between us, not awkward or tense, but weighted with shared understanding.

This wasn't just about last night, about physical attraction or momentary passion.

This was about something deeper, something that had been building since that first day in the tutoring center, perhaps even before—a recognition, a connection that defied easy categorization.

I reached for her hand, my gloved fingers interlacing with hers.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said, meaning it more than I'd meant anything in a long time.

Brooke didn't say anything for a moment, her eyes fixed on our joined hands.

Then, softly: "You say that now."

The doubt in her voice broke my heart, reminding me of everything she'd shared about her mom, about how people had drifted away after her death, about the walls she'd built to protect herself from more loss.

I leaned in, my forehead resting gently against hers, needing the physical connection, needing her to feel the truth of my words.

"I've never been sure of anything in my life," I admitted, my voice barely audible in the small space between us. "But I've never felt more me than I do when I'm with you. And that means something to me"

I hesitated, then added: "I don't want to hide this forever. I don't want it to be something I only get to have when no one else is looking."

The admission surprised even me. I'd spent so long carefully managing my image, my reputation, that the thought of openly acknowledging whatever this was—this thing with Brooke, this version of myself I was only just discovering—should have terrified me.

And it did, in a way. But the thought of keeping it hidden, of relegating it to shadows and secrets, felt even worse.

Brooke nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Then maybe we don't hide. Not really. Just... keep it ours. Until we're ready for more."

It wasn't a perfect solution, but it felt like a promise—a commitment to something real, something that could grow at its own pace, outside the expectations and judgments of others. I nodded, relief washing through me.

"Even if I fall apart?" I asked, the question exposing the vulnerability I usually tried so hard to conceal.

"Especially then," Brooke said softly, her voice a caress.

She kissed me then—not with the desperate heat of last night, but with something gentler, more grounding.

A promise, a reassurance, a connection that transcended physical desire.

I melted into it, my hands coming up to frame her face, holding her close as if I could somehow imprint this moment into my skin, make it a permanent part of me.

"I don't know what I am," I whispered against her lips, the confession both terrifying and liberating.

"But I know I want you . I need you.”

Brooke pulled me in tighter, her arms strong and sure around me.

"Then that's enough for me," she murmured, her breath warm against my skin.

We didn't fix everything in that moment. We didn't erase the complications waiting for us back at the resort—Sam's confusion, my friends' questions, the inevitable gossip that would follow. We didn't promise forever or make grand declarations.

But we chose each other. Here, now, in this small clearing on a mountain covered in snow, we chose to be real with each other, to be vulnerable, to step toward something neither of us fully understood but both desperately wanted.

And somehow, that was enough.

Eventually, reluctantly, we had to leave our sanctuary. The shadows were lengthening, the temperature dropping as afternoon faded toward evening. We had a bus to catch, rooms to pack up, a return to the real world that couldn't be postponed indefinitely.

Hand in hand, we made our way back through the trees, the toboggan dragging behind us, creating twin tracks in the snow that marked our path.

I thought about those tracks, about how they would remain there after we were gone, visible evidence of our presence, of our connection, until the next snowfall covered them completely.

"Brooke?" I said as the resort buildings came into view in the distance.

"Hmm?" She turned to look at me, her profile sharp against the winter landscape.

"Thank you. For today. For..." I gestured vaguely, unable to articulate everything I meant. For seeing me. For wanting me anyway. For showing me a version of myself I never knew existed.

She smiled, that rare, genuine smile that transformed her face, that made my heart catch in my chest.

"We'll figure it out," she said simply, squeezing my hand.

"Together."

Together . The word echoed in my mind, unfamiliar yet comforting. I'd been surrounded by people my entire life—friends, family, admirers, hangers-on—but I'd never felt less alone than I did with Brooke by my side.

As we approached the edge of the woods, the noise and bustle of the resort growing louder with each step, I held onto that feeling, tucking it away like a talisman against whatever came next.

We would face questions, complications, judgments.

We would have to navigate the aftermath of what had started in the darkness of our room and continued in the bright sunlight of our private clearing.

But for now, for this moment, I allowed myself to simply be—to be with Brooke, to be uncertain but hopeful, to be more myself than I had ever been.

And it was enough. It was more than enough.

It was everything.