If We Had Never Met

Find your favorite melancholy song to listen to while watching， set it on repeat， and you'll grow to love it even more. As a child， Aelia Grady firmly believed there were two Californias in the world. One belonged to television and movies—the infinity pools of Beverly Hills， the neon dreams chasing along Hollywood's Sunset Boulevard. The other was her own California. It lay east of Bakersfield， where the air perpetually carried the stench of truck exhaust from Highway 58， the rusty tang of nearby oil fields， and the sour， sour smell of cheap whiskey her father brought home after work. Her home mirrored this California: a corner of the living room wallpaper peeled away， revealing an older layer beneath like an unhealed scar. Her father had been a prison guard， fired for drinking and gambling on night shifts， and later became a mechanic. Consumed by shame， he vented his bitterness on his wife while growing ever more addicted to the very vices that cost him his job and dignity. Her mother， Linda， worked as an emergency room nurse at the county hospital. Each night she brought home not only coins tainted with the smell of copper， but also a silent exhaustion， drained dry by life. Her father， consumed by shame， vented his resentment on her mother， yet grew ever more addicted to the very drinking and gambling that had cost him both his job and his dignity. This thought intensified on nights when her parents fought， leaving pots and pans shattered across the floor. Linda would always have red-rimmed eyes， wiping away tears as she cleaned up the broken glass. “Why don't you divorce him?” Aelia once ran out of her room to ask her mother. “It's all because of you!” Mom glared at her， her teeth clenched. “It's all because of you”—that was her mother's mantra. When Mom felt wronged at her grandmother's house， where sons were favored over daughters， she'd point at her daughter and say，“It's all because of you!” And when Mom and Dad fought so fiercely the house shook， Mom would pause mid-cleanup， look up， and yell at her， I've wanted to divorce him for ages， and it's all because of you!“ When her math grades failed and the teacher called her in for a talk， on the way home， her mother would shake off the hand she tried to hold:”I'm so embarrassed， and it's all because you're so hopeless!“ It seemed every misfortune that befell her mother stemmed from her. Ten-year-old Ailia couldn't understand: Was she truly that heinous? As a child， Ailia had heard the famous saying，“Art imitates life.” To her， whoever uttered those words was spouting utter nonsense. What was life? It was the endless cursing and bickering that greeted her the moment she stepped through the door. It was the teacher tearing up her wrong homework in front of the whole class. It was her mother discovering the TV burning hot again and again because her middle school entrance exam scores were too poor， finally snapping and cutting off the family's internet. That TV-less summer nearly killed her. But soon she discovered a“new world”—the town's secondhand bookstore. She awkwardly made her way to the young adult fiction section， slipped a book between the pages of her thick study guides， then crouched in an unseen corner， reading for hours on end. After devouring countless novels， she started crafting stories in her newly bought Candy House notebook:“A cold-hearted rock star falls for an ordinary schoolgirl”... The heroine in her tales had to be plain and kind—just like her， with no distinguishing features. When Arya was eight， a pastel painting of the night sky won her a small community art award. She ran home， imagining even the slightest hint of praise from her father. Instead， he snatched the certificate in a drunken rage and tossed it into the backyard barbecue grill. From that day on， Aelia learned to hide: behind thick bangs， in the school library's most secluded corner， within novels bought from secondhand bookstores where her father couldn't find them. The world within those pages held another California she longed for. Outside her door， adults argued， and the sound of shattering teacups echoed. Inside the room， she let her tears fall“plop plop” onto colorful candy-house stationery， hoping the hero she wrote about would reach out from the paper and take her away. Yet， after praying under her covers all night， she heard only her parents slamming doors as they left for work the next morning. The room was empty and silent. Her superhero could only live in her heart. After the new semester began in seventh grade， she discovered that the story she’d crafted over the summer had transformed her. Writing narrative essays seemed effortless now. On the midterm essay exam， she scored 48 out of 50. Her homeroom teacher summoned her to the office and asked sternly，“Be honest—did you write this yourself?” She nodded. The teacher said nothing more， only returned the paper with a cold expression. Due to a lack of trust in underachievers， though her essay was circulated as a model piece for the entire grade， the teacher never praised her. Junior high life differed little from elementary school. She remained quiet and reserved， playing the role of an invisible， dispensable person. Did she even exist? She had asked herself this question more than once. Until one day， she finally found a definitive answer: She did exist. Because she had fallen for someone. He was Ethan Blackwood from the neighboring class—an ordinary name， but the person behind it was anything but ordinary. During the combined PE class for both sections， she sat alone on the corner pull-up bar， quietly observing the handsome boy on the basketball court. He was special—rumored to be academically brilliant， having ranked first in the entire grade on the midterms; he was also strikingly good-looking and exceptionally outgoing. In the crowd， he seemed no different from the other boys slung arm-in-arm， cracking jokes and causing a ruckus. But Elia knew he was different from them. Because his grades were better than theirs， and he was more handsome than them. Such shallow thoughts made her despise herself， yet she couldn't deny that this dazzling boy who suddenly appeared in her dull life was far too easy to capture her attention—and far too perfect for her to fall for. Suddenly， she felt like the heroine of a romance novel， her knight in shining armor unexpectedly bursting into her reality. She no longer secretly read romance novels; instead， she secretly watched him. She would deliberately walk to the water cooler at the end of the hallway just to catch glimpses of his hasty silhouette as she passed the door of the neighboring classroom; she would“coincidentally” run into him during breaks. So when her essay was printed and distributed to the entire grade， she began to harbor an unrealistic fantasy: Would he come looking for her? Would he suddenly appear before her， excitedly asking，“Are you Aelia?” Then smile and wave at her， saying，“Let's get acquainted. I'm Ethan from Class 9.” Yet， on the way back to class after exercises， she overheard a boy from her class say to another student:“Who? Ailia? From our class? I honestly don't recall anyone like that in our class.” She stopped in her tracks， watching the two boys' backs grow distant， suddenly feeling utterly pitiful. A profound sense of loss washed over her. She should have woken up sooner. That Ethan， so distant from her， was merely a dream she could never reach. How could he possibly be her superhero?