Page 59 of First Echo
Brooke looked away first, turning toward her bed. "You don't get to want nothing and everything at the same time, Madeline."
I swallowed hard, the truth of her words scraping raw against something vulnerable inside me. For a moment, I almost broke—almost let the messy, honest words tumble out. Almost admitted that I was scared, confused, caught between who I thought I was and who I felt myself becoming whenever she was near.
Instead, I retreated to the bathroom, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. I leaned against the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, the careful mask of Madeline Hayes slipping dangerously out of place.
"Get it together," I whispered to my reflection. "What is wrong with you?"
But I knew what was wrong, even if I couldn't admit it out loud. Brooke Winters had somehow worked her way under my skin, into places I'd kept carefully guarded. She saw me—not the version I presented to the world, but something truer, something I wasn't sure I was ready to face myself.
I went through my nighttime routine, washing away makeup, applying face cream, brushing teeth. Normal actions that should have grounded me but instead felt like going through the motions, a performance of normalcy when everything inside me felt anything but normal.
When I finally emerged, Brooke was already in her bed, book open in her lap. The silence between us felt both brittle and heavy, charged with too many unspoken things.
I slipped into my own bed, keeping my back to her, staring at the wall as if it might offer answers to questions I was afraid to ask.
"I didn't mean to make you mad earlier," Brooke said suddenly, her voice quiet in the stillness of our room. "When I walked away after the race."
The unexpected olive branch caught me off guard. I rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, not quite ready to face her directly.
"You didn't make me mad," I lied, then sighed. "Okay, maybe a little. I was just... I thought we were okay. After the bar the other night, I thought..."
"Thought what?" she prompted when I didn't continue.
I thought maybe we were friends. I thought maybe we could be something more than the boxes we'd been put in. I thought maybe you were seeing the real me, not just the version I show everyone else.
"I don't know," I said instead, the truth too raw, too complicated to voice.
"That's the problem, isn't it?" Brooke said, her voice soft but clear in the dim room. "You don't know what you want. Or maybe you do know, but you're afraid to admit it."
I turned my head to look at her then. She was sitting up in bed, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, the blue of her blouse replaced by a simple gray sleep shirt. In the soft light filtering through the curtains, she looked younger somehow, more vulnerable. But her eyes were steady, unflinching.
"What about you?" I challenged, deflecting. "What do you want, Brooke?"
Something flickered across her face—hesitation, maybe, or resignation. "Clarity," she said finally. "I want people to mean what they say. I want..." She paused, seeming to choose her next words carefully. "I want to not feel like I'm constantly trying to decode someone's mixed signals."
The accusation was clear, even unspoken. I was the one sending mixed signals. I was the one who couldn't decide what I wanted.
"It's not that simple," I said, pushing myself up to sitting, suddenly needing to be on equal footing. "You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me," she interrupted, an edge of frustration breaking through her usual composure. "Explain why you can sit and talk with me for hours at a bar one night, then completely ignore me the next day. Explain why you look at me like... likethat, then tell me you don't want anything fromme. Explain why you get jealous when I talk to someone else, then go back to your boyfriend like nothing happened."
Her words hit with devastating accuracy, each one finding its mark. I flinched, unable to meet her gaze.
"I don't know how to explain it," I admitted, the confession barely audible. "I don't know how to make sense of any of this."
"Any of what, Madeline?" she pressed. "Just say it. For once, just say what you're actually thinking instead of what you think you're supposed to say."
The challenge hung between us, impossible to ignore. I took a deep breath, searching for words that felt true, that felt honest.
"I like spending time with you," I said finally, the admission feeling like stepping off a cliff. "When we're together, I feel... different. Like I can just be me, not the version of me everyone expects." I traced a pattern on my blanket, still not looking at her. "And it scares me. Because I don't even know who that person is most of the time."
Brooke was quiet for a long moment, and I forced myself to look up, to meet her gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were softer than they had been all day.
"Do you want to know what I see?" she asked, her voice gentle in a way that made my heart ache. "I see someone trying so hard to be perfect that she's afraid to let anyone see the cracks. I see someone surrounded by people but still lonely. I see someone capable of being real, being genuine, but terrified of what happens if she lets that show."
Her words stripped me bare, leaving nowhere to hide. I wanted to deflect, to deny, to throw up the walls I'd spent years perfecting. But I was tired of hiding, tired of pretending.
"Maybe you're right," I whispered, the admission both terrifying and somehow freeing. "But I don't know how to be any other way."
