Page 19 of First Echo

She looked up, seeming almost surprised that I was still there. "Oh, it's just... a fantasy novel. Nothing you'd be interested in."

There was something in her tone, a defensiveness that piqued my interest even further. "Try me," I challenged, sitting on the edge of my bed facing her.

She hesitated, her grip on the book tightening slightly. "It's called 'The Shadow Realms.' It's about a girl who discovers she can travel between parallel worlds. Each world is like a different version of our own, with its own rules and dangers. She has to learn to navigate them all while trying to find her way back home."

"God, that sounds boring," I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. "Is that really what you'd rather be doing than going out and having actual fun? Reading about some fake girl's adventures instead of having your own?"

I regretted the words immediately, watching as her face fell, something flickering in her eyes that looked almost like pain before hardening into anger.

"Not everyone thinks getting drunk with a bunch of shallow idiots is the definition of fun," she snapped, closing her book with more force than necessary.

"At least I'm not so boring that I sit alone in a hotel room reading on a ski trip," I shot back, stung by her dismissal of my friends. "Do you even know how to have a good time, or is your idea of excitement getting to the end of a chapter?"

She laughed, a short, bitter sound that held no humor. "You don't know the first thing about me or what I find exciting. But sure, go ahead and judge me based on your narrow definition of what's cool or fun. That's what people like you do best, isn't it?"

"People like me?" I repeated, my voice rising slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"People who think their way is the only way," she said, her voice tight with restrained emotion. "People who judge others for being different, for finding joy in things they don't understand. For having the audacity to exist outside their little bubble of acceptability."

Her words hit harder than they should have, striking some chord deep inside me that I didn't want to examine too closely. "You think you're so superior, don't you? With your books and your perfect grades and your little judgments about everyone else. At least I know how to connect with actual people instead of fictional characters."

Something flashed in her eyes then, a raw vulnerability that made me falter for just a moment. She clutched the book tighter,like it was something precious, something more than just paper and ink.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she said, her voice tight with emotion. "Not everything has to be loud and public to be meaningful."

The implication hung in the air between us—that I was too shallow, too self-absorbed to understand deeper connections. It stung, partly because it wasn't entirely untrue.

"Whatever," I said finally, unable to think of a better response. "At least I'm not using a book to hide from real life."

She looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. Then, without another word, she placed the book carefully on her nightstand, turned off her lamp, and rolled over, her back to me in a clear dismissal.

The room plunged into darkness, save for the faint moonlight filtering through the blinds. I stood frozen, a strange heaviness settling in my chest. I'd won the argument, technically—she'd been the one to retreat, to turn away first. So why did it feel like I was the one who had lost something?

I slipped under my covers and stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Brooke's breathing across the room. It wasn't the even rhythm of sleep, but rather the carefully controlled pattern of someone trying very hard to appear calm when they weren't.

Something nagged at me, something about the way she'd reacted, the hurt that had flashed across her face before anger replaced it. A memory stirred—something Julian had mentioned once about the weird quiet girl whose mom had died a few years back. Was that Brooke? Was I missing something important here?

The thought made me uneasy, like I'd stepped into deeper water than I realized.

"Brooke?" I ventured quietly into the darkness. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to—"

"I'm fine," came the flat response, no emotion coloring the words. "Just drop it."

I swallowed hard, an unfamiliar feeling of discomfort washing over me. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said. About the book. I didn't realize it was important to you."

The silence stretched so long I thought she might not respond at all. Finally, she sighed, the sound barely audible in the quiet room.

"Whatever. Just go to sleep, Madeline."

I lay there in the darkness, wondering how I always seemed to say the exact wrong thing to her, how every interaction ended with one of us hurt or angry or both. It was exhausting, this constant back and forth, this endless dance of advance and retreat. And yet, I couldn't seem to stop myself from engaging with her, from pushing her buttons, from trying to get past that careful wall of indifference she maintained.

As sleep finally began to claim me, one thought kept circling in my mind: why did I care so much about what Brooke Winters thought of me? Why couldn't I just ignore her, like I did everyone else who didn't matter in my carefully constructed social hierarchy?

The question followed me into my dreams, unanswered and unsettling, like a shadow I couldn't quite shake.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BROOKE

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