Page 44 of First Echo

We stood just inches apart, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her, could see the slight tremble in her hands as she reached for her phone. Something electric hung in the air between us, a tension unlike anything I'd experienced before—not the antagonistic friction of our earlier encounters, but something deeper, more primal. Something that made my heart race and my breath catch in my throat.

I could hear each shallow breath she took, feel the slight disturbance in the air between us. The world outside this room—the resort, the mountain, everything—seemed to fade awayuntil there was nothing but this moment, this proximity, this unbearable tension stretching between us like a thread pulled too tight.

Her eyes met mine, blue depths swirling with confusion and something else, something that mirrored the strange ache building in my chest. Her lips parted slightly, and for one wild, irrational moment, I wondered what they would taste like.

"I should go," she whispered, her voice barely audible even in the quiet room.

And then she was gone again, the door closing behind her with a soft click that somehow echoed in the emptiness she left behind.

I stood there, frozen, my t-shirt still clutched forgotten in my hand. What had just happened? What was this feeling that seemed to hollow out my chest, leaving only a strange, aching hunger in its place?

Is this what friendship feels like?

But even as the thought formed, I knew it wasn't quite right. Friends didn't make your skin burn where their gaze touched it. Friends didn't leave you breathless with just their proximity. Friends didn't make you wonder about the softness of their lips.

I pulled on my t-shirt with trembling hands, trying to steady my racing thoughts. This was ridiculous. This wasMadeline Hayes—the girl who'd looked down on people like me for years, who'd only recently stopped treating me like something stuck to the bottom of her designer shoes. Whatever I was feeling was just... confusion. The unfamiliarity of having someone break through my isolation, of allowing myself to care even a little about another person.

It wasn'therspecifically. It couldn't be.

I moved to the window, gazing out at the snow-covered landscape, the moonlight turning everything to silver and shadow. Where had she gone? Back to Sam, obviously. Thegolden boy, the perfect boyfriend. I pictured them together—his hands in her hair, his lips on hers—and felt something twist painfully in my stomach.

Are they having sex right now?

The thought rose unbidden, unwelcome, sending a wave of something that felt disturbingly like jealousy through me. Why should I care what Madeline did with her boyfriend? Why should the image of them together make me feel like I'd swallowed broken glass?

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to extinguish the heat that had risen to my face. Outside, a few late-night revelers trudged through the snow, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass. Normal people, having normal fun, without this confusing storm raging inside them.

I turned away from the window, anger at myself rising like a tide. This was exactly why I kept people at a distance. Caring about people only led to pain. They either left you or disappointed you—or both. It was foolish to think Madeline would be any different. She had her perfect life, her perfect boyfriend, her perfect friends. Whatever momentary connection we'd shared tonight was just that—momentary. A curious detour from her real life, nothing more.

Tomorrow, she'd probably be back to being Madeline Hayes, queen bee. And I'd be back to being nobody.

I slipped into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin like a shield against the confusion and hurt swirling inside me. I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come, but every time I did, I saw her face—the way she'd looked at me when she walked in, like I was something unexpected, something that shook her carefully constructed world.

She'd looked at me like I was something she'd never seen before.

Hours passed, the soft ticking of the bedside clock marking time in the darkness. I drifted in and out of restless dreams, always waking to the same empty room, the other bed still perfectly made, untouched.

Where was she? Had she stayed with Sam the entire night? The questions circled endlessly, refusing to let me rest.

I thought about all the times people had walked away from me—the friends who couldn't handle my grief after Mom died, the classmates who stopped inviting me places, the father who was physically present but emotionally absent, lost in his own pain. Everyone always left in the end.

Why had I let myself believe, even for a moment, that Madeline might be different?

I curled onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, making myself small against the vastness of these feelings I couldn't name. My heart was still pounding, hours after that moment of electric tension. I was confused, exhausted, and something else—something that felt dangerously close to longing.

"I wish she hadn't walked out," I whispered to the darkness, the admission barely audible even to my own ears.

The darkness offered no answers, just the hollow ache of another person slipping through my fingers like snow melting in the palm of my hand—there for a moment, then gone, leaving nothing but the cold memory of their brief warmth.

Outside, the moon tracked its path across the sky, indifferent to the small human dramas playing out beneath its silver light. And inside, I lay awake, wondering when I'd become the kind of person who cared where Madeline Hayes spent her nights, and why the thought of her with someone else felt like a wound I hadn't seen coming.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MADELINE

Ifled.

There was no other word for it. I grabbed my phone, mumbled something about leaving, and escaped our room like it was on fire. The door clicked shut behind me, and I stood in the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs as if trying to break free.

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