If We Had Never Met

Chapter 2: Just Because He's Here

Wherever cliques exist， bullying may occur.

Wearing that flannel shirt bought from Walmart's clearance section， half a size too big， Aelia felt every fibre of her being screaming“misfit”.

Standing before the gleaming silver machine， she stared at the unfamiliar terms:“Latte”，“Macchiato”，“Frappuccino”. She felt like a caveman confronting futuristic technology. Behind her， several girls waited impatiently. Their hushed chatter and soft giggles pricked her back like countless tiny needles.

Finally， she gave up， merely wanting a cup of free hot water， but in her fluster she pressed the wrong button. A stream of scalding espresso spurted out， some of it splashing onto the tip of the shoe of the blonde girl at the front of the queue.

‘Oh， dear，’ the girl—whom Aelia later learned was Olivia Winston—said in an exaggerated yet polite tone. Without looking at Aelia， she studied her own exquisite Tod's loafers and remarked to her friends，‘It seems this year's“charity case” hasn't quite mastered modern appliances yet.’

A stifled， audible sniggering erupted around them.

‘Charity case.’

The phrase struck Aelia like a bullet， her cheeks instantly flushing crimson as blood pounded in her ears. She wanted to apologise， to explain， to vanish into a c***k in the pavement， but could do nothing. She stood there like a fool， exposed to the scornful stares that sliced through her.

She practically fled the cafeteria， walking along the picturesque campus paths strewn with golden leaves. Yet her mind was devoid of any scenery; only Olivia's flippant remark echoed like a curse in her ears， stirring a more distant and painful memory.

It was an evening when she was eight， the air in Bakersfield thick with dust and the scent of barbecues. She clutched the certificate she'd just won for her community painting， feeling as though she'd captured the light of the entire world. Her father， drunk from the despair of unemployment， sat in the backyard， cursing the music drifting from the neighbours' party.

“Daddy， look!“ she offered the certificate， her voice carrying a pride she hadn't quite registered herself.

Her father lifted bloodshot eyes， glanced first at the paper stamped‘First Prize，’ then at her. Instead of taking it， he staggered to his feet， snatched the certificate， and flung it into the still-smouldering barbecue beside him.

‘Useless rubbish!’ he bellowed， his reek of alcohol making Aelia feel sick.‘People like us are destined for our lot! Drawing this nonsense will only make you despised like me for the rest of your life!’

Flames leapt up， reducing the dazzling starry sky she'd spent a week painting to curled black ash. In that moment， she felt it wasn't just a sheet of paper being consumed by the flames， but herself.

‘Hey， are you alright?’

A voice pulled Aelia from the icy recollection. She looked up to see a girl with pixie-cut blue hair and an old film camera slung around her neck—her classmate Maya.

‘I'm fine.’ Aelia quickly lowered her head， refusing to let anyone see her reddened eyes.

Chewing gum， Maya glanced in the direction of the cafeteria where Aelia's gaze had fallen: Olivia and her friends were climbing into a convertible.‘Oh，’ Maya murmured， her voice carrying a note of understanding.‘Getting baptised by“Queen Winston” and her plastic sisterhood?’ She blew a bubble before continuing，‘Don't mind them. They're just a bunch of Chanel wallets with lungs. In this school， you're either the hunter， the hunted， or like us—a camera-toting observer.’

Maya's words blew like a cool breeze， dispersing some of the humiliation in Aelia's heart. It was the first thing she'd heard since arriving that carried no trace of scrutiny or judgement.

Yet reality struck again almost immediately. During her first group maths lesson， the teacher conveyed the school's rigorous academic standards with elegant detachment: despite straining every nerve， she could barely keep pace with the teacher's fluid， streamlined proofs. Seated at the back of the vast lecture theatre， she watched Ethan effortlessly answer questions from the front row. The distance between them felt not merely dozens of rows of seats， but an unbridgeable dimension.

She began scribbling his name over and over on her rough paper: Ethan Blackwood. This fourteen-letter name felt more complex than any calculus formula on the blackboard， yet it held a strange fascination for her.

Then， she heard her own name called.

‘Elia，’ the teacher said， adjusting his spectacles as he looked at her.‘What are your thoughts on the question I just posed?’

She scrambled to her feet， her mind blank， the room falling silent. She could feel every pair of eyes fixed upon her.

The teacher remarked in a tone devoid of emotion，‘It seems some students may need to reassess their foundational knowledge to determine whether it aligns with their current honours.’

Humiliation washed over her once more.

She drifted through campus like a ghost， timing her movements precisely to‘chance upon’ the basketball court on her way back to the dorm from the library after lunch， just to glimpse Ethan practising. The orange ball danced in his hands， tracing perfect arcs before swishing through the net. Each basket drew cheers from his friends， while Aelia remained a distant spectator， not even entitled to a clap.

That night， for the first time， Aelia lay awake. Listening to Maya's steady breathing in the darkness， she felt like a drowning person. Her father's curse， Olivia's mockery， the professor's doubt—like countless cold hands， they dragged her towards the abyss.

What right did she have to stay here? What right did she have to think she could ever approach such light?

Just as despair threatened to swallow her whole， she reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the photograph of Ethan she'd cut from the school newspaper. In the picture， he wore his school uniform， smiling， his eyes bright as a distant star.

She stared at the photograph and whispered to herself:‘Because he's here.’

That was her sole reason for staying.

She drew a deep breath， switched on the bedside lamp， and opened the maths textbook， thick as a brick.

Outside the window， the California moon hung cold as a block of ice.