Page 16 of First Echo

I miss her so much.

Sometimes the absence felt like a physical thing, a hollow space inside me that nothing else could fill. But up here, with the wind in my face and the endless horizon before me, I felt closer to her somehow. Like maybe a part of her was still with me, riding these slopes, feeling this same wild freedom.

When I reached the top, I strapped on my board and took a moment to survey the runs spreading out below. From this vantage point, the entire mountain was my playground. I chose a blue run to start, wanting to warm up before tackling anything more challenging. The snow was perfect—not too icy, not too soft, just the right consistency for carving smooth, clean turns.

As I pushed off, all my confused thoughts about Madeline and roommates and social hierarchies melted away. There was only this: the rush of cold air against my face, the rhythmic sound of my board cutting through snow, the complete and total control over my own movement. I leaned into turns, shifted my weight from heel to toe edge, found that perfect balance point where speed and control merge into something like flying.

I did a few runs, each time scanning the slopes and the lift lines for a glimpse of blonde hair or that expensive designer ski jacket. I kept telling myself I was just curious, that it didn't matter if I saw her or not, but each time my eyes searched the crowd, I felt a twinge of... something. Disappointment? Relief? I wasn't sure.

Why am I even looking for her? It was a question I didn't have a good answer for. Maybe I wanted to show off a little, prove that I wasn't just some boring bookworm. Maybe I wanted to see if she'd acknowledge me outside our room, in front of her friends. Or maybe I was just curious about which version of Madeline I'd encounter on the slopes—the mean girl from school, or the slightly more complex person who'd chosen to save me from embarrassment.

But I never saw her. Maybe she was getting a drink somewhere, or maybe we just kept missing each other on different runs. Or maybe she'd never intended to ski at all, and "see you on the slopes" had just been a throw-away line, as meaningless as "see you later" often is.

I didn't mind being alone though. In fact, there was something wonderfully freeing about carving my own path down the mountain, answering to no one's schedule but my own.

I may be alone, but I'm not lonely. The words I'd said to Madeline earlier rang true up here, where solitude felt like a choice rather than a condition.

After a couple of hours, my legs began to burn with that pleasant fatigue that comes from good exercise. The sun was starting to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the snow. I decided to call it a day and head back to the resort to clean up before dinner.

Back in our room, I peeled off my damp outer layers and hung them up to dry. My hair was a mess from the helmet, and I desperately needed a hot shower to warm up my chilled bones. I grabbed my toiletries and a change of clothes and headed for the bathroom, looking forward to the sting of hot water on my cold skin.

I was midway through my shower, hair full of shampoo, when I heard the door to our room open and close. Madeline was back. Through the sound of the water, I could hear her moving around, the thump of something heavy—probably her ski boots—being dropped on the floor.

"I'm in the shower!" I called out, though I wasn't sure why I felt the need to announce it. The running water and closed bathroom door probably made that obvious.

A muffled response came from the other side of the door. It sounded like "Take your time," but I couldn't be sure over therush of the shower. I rinsed my hair and finished up quickly, not wanting to hog the bathroom in case she needed it too.

When I emerged, wrapped in a cloud of steam and wearing clean jeans and a sweater, I found Madeline sprawled across her bed, still in her ski clothes minus the jacket and helmet. Her blonde hair was tangled and slightly damp, probably from snow, and her face was flushed from the cold. Her eyes were closed, her breathing deep and even.

She's asleep. The realization struck me as oddly endearing. Madeline Hayes, always so perfectly put together, was passed out fully clothed on her bed, looking utterly exhausted. There was something vulnerable about her in that moment, something that made her seem more human and less like the untouchable queen bee I was used to seeing at school.

I moved quietly around the room, not wanting to wake her. I dried my hair with a towel, trying to tame the waves into something presentable, then settled back on my bed with my book. This time, I managed to actually read, losing myself in the story as the afternoon light gradually faded outside our window.

I was so absorbed in my book that I almost lost track of time. A glance at my phone showed it was nearly six—dinner time. The teachers had been very clear that attendance at group meals was mandatory, a way of checking in on everyone and making sure no one had fallen off the mountain or gotten into trouble.

Madeline was still sound asleep, her face pressed into the pillow in a way that would probably leave creases on her cheek. For a moment, I debated letting her sleep, but the thought of Mr. Sinclair marking her absent and coming to check on her—and by extension, me—was enough to make me decide waking her was the lesser evil.

"Madeline," I said softly, then a bit louder when she didn't stir. "Madeline, wake up."

She groaned and buried her face deeper into the pillow.

"Madeline," I tried again, this time gently touching her shoulder. "It's dinner time. We have to go downstairs."

Her eyes flew open, disoriented and slightly panicked. She sat up quickly, wincing as she did so. "What time is it?" she demanded, her voice rough with sleep.

"Almost six," I replied, stepping back to give her space. "Dinner starts in five minutes."

"And you're just waking me up now?" she snapped, suddenly fully alert.

"I've been asleep for hours! Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

I blinked, taken aback by her hostility. "I didn't realize I was supposed to be your personal alarm clock."

She was already on her feet, frantically running her fingers through her tangled hair, her expression growing more horrified as she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

"Look at me! I can't go down like this. My hair is a disaster, and I'm still in my ski clothes!"

"You look fine, Madeline," I said, my patience wearing thin. "Everyone's going to be in casual clothes anyway."

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