Page 60 of First Echo

"You could start by being honest," she suggested, a hint of the old Brooke—sarcastic, challenging—creeping back into her voice. "With yourself, if no one else."

I hugged my knees to my chest, suddenly feeling very young and very lost. "And what if I don't like what I find?"

Brooke's smile was small but genuine. "That's the risk, isn't it? But maybe what you find is better than what you're hiding from."

Our eyes held across the space between our beds—a chasm that suddenly felt both too wide and not wide enough. There was something in her gaze that made my breath catch, something that felt dangerously close to understanding, to acceptance.

"I should sleep," I said abruptly, breaking the moment before it could pull me in deeper. "Early start tomorrow. Last day on the slopes."

Disappointment flickered across her face, there and gone so quickly I almost missed it. "Yeah," she agreed, settling back against her pillows. "Goodnight, Madeline."

"Goodnight, Brooke."

I lay back down, turning to face the wall again, feeling the weight of all the things still unsaid pressing down on me. As the silence stretched between us, I could hear Brooke's breathing gradually evening out, slowing as she drifted toward sleep.

But I remained awake, staring into the darkness, replaying her words in my mind:You don't get to want nothing and everything at the same time.

The truth of it settled over me, uncomfortable but undeniable. I couldn't keep pretending I didn't feel something for Brooke, couldn't keep sending mixed signals, couldn't keep hiding behind the perfect facade I'd spent years constructing.

Be honest with yourself, if no one else.

What did I want? The question echoed in my mind, demanding an answer I wasn't sure I was ready to give.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

BROOKE

Darkness settled over our room like a blanket—not comforting, not suffocating, just there. After our conversation, after I had turned to face the wall, a strange silence hung between us. Not cold, exactly, but not warm either. It sat in the space between our beds like something alive, something acknowledged but unnamed.

I stared at the wall, tracing the faint patterns of shadow cast by moonlight filtering through the curtains. Sleep felt impossible, my mind replaying our conversation in endless loops.

"When we're together, I feel different. Like I can just be me, not the version of me everyone expects."

Her words kept cycling through my head, along with my own:

"You don't get to want nothing and everything at the same time, Madeline."

I wasn't even sure who I was angry at anymore. Madeline, for her contradictions and mixed signals? Myself, for caring too much? Or maybe it was the impossible space between us—too far to reach across, too close to ignore.

"Brooke?"

Her voice was soft, hesitant, barely audible in the quiet room. I turned toward the sound, though I could only make out her silhouette in the darkness.

"Yeah?" I answered, my own voice rough from disuse.

"Are you still awake?"

I couldn't help the slight edge of sarcasm that crept into my response. "I just said 'yeah,' so... yeah."

A small laugh escaped her, the sound cutting through the tension like a spark in the darkness. "Right. Sorry."

I expected her to continue, to say whatever had prompted her to break the silence. But she remained quiet, as if gathering her thoughts—or her courage.

"Did you need something?" I finally asked when the silence stretched too long.

"No," she said quickly, then, "I don't know. I just... couldn't sleep."

"That makes two of us."

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