Page 48 of First Echo

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 rarelyventured. 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."

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