Page 53 of First Echo

But tonight, I pulled it on, along with a pair of black pants that actually fit properly. The girl in the mirror looked different—not just because of the clothes, but because of the determination in her eyes, the slight flush in her cheeks, the tension in her jaw. She looked like someone with a secret, someone who might not always fade into the background.

I finished getting ready quickly, applying minimal makeup and running a brush through my damp hair before settling on my bed with my book. I could feel the unfamiliar fabric of the blouse against my skin, a constant reminder of this small act of rebellion. The words on the page blurred before my eyes, my mind too restless to focus, but the familiar weight of the book in my hands was comforting—a shield against whatever might come next.

Twenty minutes passed before the door opened and Madeline appeared, snowflakes melting in her blonde hair, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She hesitated when she saw me, her eyes widening slightly before she composed her features into careful indifference.

"Hi," she said, the word dropping into the silence between us like a stone into still water.

I nodded, the barest acknowledgment, keeping my eyes on my book though I couldn't have said what words they were seeing. I was acutely aware of her moving around the room,the soft sounds of her unpacking things, hanging up her jacket. The mundane sounds of a shared existence that somehow felt charged with unspoken things.

"Congratulations on the race," she tried again, her voice a careful mix of casual and friendly. "You were really impressive out there."

"Thanks," I replied, not looking up. One word, delivered with the precise amount of polite disinterest I'd perfected over years of keeping people at a distance.

The silence returned, heavier now. I could hear her moving around the room, gathering clothes for her shower. The bathroom door closed behind her with a soft click, and I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, letting my book fall closed.

What was I doing? This cold war between us was exhausting, draining energy I didn't have to spare. And for what? To protect myself from the inevitable moment when Madeline Hayes realized I wasn't worth her time? When she returned fully to her perfect boyfriend, her perfect friends, her perfect life where girls like me didn't belong?

Better to end it now. Better to be the one who walked away than the one left behind. Again.

I returned to my book, forcing myself to focus on the familiar story, letting it carry me away from the complications of the present. The sound of the shower running, the faint smell of Madeline's expensive shampoo seeping under the door, the knowledge that she was so close yet so untouchable—I pushed it all away, retreating into the fictional world between the pages.

When the bathroom door opened twenty minutes later, releasing a cloud of steam and the stronger scent of Madeline's shampoo, I kept my eyes fixed firmly on my book. But I was aware of her presence like a physical touch against my skin—the rustle of fabric as she moved around the room, the soft paddingof her bare feet on the carpet, the subtle warmth that seemed to radiate from her.

I could sense her getting ready for dinner, though I refused to look directly at her. Just brief glimpses from the corner of my eye—the flash of bare shoulders before she slipped on her dress, the shine of her damp hair as she combed it out, the graceful movements of her hands as she applied makeup at the small vanity.

Eventually, she stood before the mirror, dressed in a simple but elegant black dress that highlighted the curves of her body in ways that made my mouth go dry despite myself. Her blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the light with every movement. She looked effortlessly beautiful, breathtaking beyond reason, ethereal like a dream I was never meant to wake from. And I hated myself for noticing. I hated myself for caring. I hated myself for wanting.

She fumbled with a necklace, a delicate gold chain with a small pendant. I watched covertly as she tried unsuccessfully to clasp it behind her neck, her fingers slipping on the tiny mechanism. A small sigh of frustration escaped her, the sound somehow vulnerable in the quiet room.

Then her eyes found mine in the mirror's reflection, catching me watching. I quickly looked back down at my book, but it was too late. The moment stretched, taut with unspoken things.

"Can you help me with this?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral as she held up the necklace without turning around.

I didn't respond immediately, weighing the request against the walls I'd been so carefully constructing. It would be easy to refuse, to maintain the distance I'd imposed between us. But something pulled me forward, step by reluctant step, until I stood directly behind her.

Madeline gathered her hair and lifted it off her neck, exposing the vulnerable curve where it met her shoulder. I took thenecklace from her hand, our fingers brushing in a contact that sent electricity racing up my arm. My heart hammered against my ribs, loud enough that I was certain she must hear it.

The clasp was indeed small, requiring a delicacy of touch that made my hands feel suddenly clumsy. I leaned closer, my breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. I could smell her perfume, stronger now, intoxicating in its proximity. Something floral and expensive that reminded me of sunlight through leaves.

As I worked the clasp, my fingertips brushed against her skin—soft, warm, impossibly smooth. I felt her stiffen slightly, a barely perceptible reaction that mirrored the sudden tightness in my own chest. The gold of the necklace caught the light, warm against her skin, the contrast drawing my eye, making me acutely aware of how close we stood, how intimate this simple act had become.

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 tothe 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."

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