Chasing Starlight

The back of her neck burned under the sun. Sweat trickled down her spine, and her shirt clung to her skin like a film she couldn't peel off.

Stella squatted in a corner of the set, a half-cold boxed meal in her hand. Grease seeped from the edge of the plastic container onto the base of her thumb. She didn’t wipe it off. She lowered her head and shoveled rice into her mouth. The grains were hard, grinding against her teeth.

“Move! Move!”

The production assistant’s voice hit her from the right. Before she could look up, a hand shoved her shoulder. Her body tipped left, and her hip slammed into the edge of a prop box first. The hard wood bit through her thin pants and into bone. The meal flew out of her hand and landed on the ground, rice spilling across the dirt. A few grains splashed onto the toe of her shoe.

“Blocking the shot? Who the hell do you think you are, an extra?”

The PA had already walked away. He didn’t even look back. Stella stared at the rice on the ground—oil and vegetable juice mixing together, seeping into the cracks of the concrete.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

Not a smile. It was her body reacting on its own, at the limit of tension. Her heart hammered, but her face went there first. She reached up and touched her own lip. So she was “smiling.”

A sting on her knee. She looked down. The fabric was torn, the skin underneath scraped raw. A thin line of blood beaded up. She pressed it with her finger. The blood felt warm on her fingertip.

The extra next to her handed over half a bottle of water. “Don’t take it to heart. This business is like that.”

Stella took it but didn’t drink. Moisture from the bottle wet her palm. She set it on the ground, stood up, and dusted off her pants. The grit didn’t come off. A gray-black stain stayed on her hand.

“Stella! Come here!”

Someone from the props crew was calling. She walked over, stepping through the spilled rice. The sole of her shoe made a soft, sticky sound.

They wanted her to move prop boxes. The box was heavier than she expected. As she lifted it, her arm muscles tensed, and she could feel her pulse jumping under her skin. She made three trips. By the fourth, her fingers ached—joints grinding like hinges without oil.

“All right, stand over there. Next scene’s shooting.”

She moved to the spot they pointed at—a corner near the wall. White paint dust from the wall rubbed off on her arm, leaving a pale streak. The sun had shifted west. Light slanted through a window and fell three steps in front of her. That was the lead actor’s spot.

She stood in the shadow, staring at that patch of light.

The director called “Action.” The lead spoke his lines inside the light. His voice was pleasant. Stella stared at his shoes—brand new sneakers from a sponsor, white, reflecting the light. She looked down at her own. The toe was scuffed, the inner lining showing through, darker.

“Cut. The extra—yes, you.”

The director’s voice pointed at her.

Stella looked up. He was looking at her.

“What were you staring at?”

She opened her mouth. Her throat was dry, and her voice came out raspier than she expected. “His… his shoes.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She stopped. “Because they’re very white. Mine are broken.”

The PA glared at her—don’t say weird things. But the director didn’t get angry. He tilted his head instead. “You. Perform someone who’s been abandoned. No lines. Thirty seconds.”

Everyone was watching her.

Stella’s toes curled inside her shoes. Her palms started to sweat. She walked into the light. It hit her back—hotter than it had been in the shade. She stood for two seconds, then turned to face the wall.

Her forehead pressed against rough concrete. White dust scraped against her skin, prickling. She didn’t cry—that wasn’t what this character would do. She pressed her fingers against the wall, spread them, then slowly curled them in. Her nails scraped the surface, a soft grating sound. White dust collected on her fingertips.

Her hand slid down the wall. It stopped in midair, fingers still spread, as if reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Then she pulled her hand back and hugged her own shoulders. Her fingers dug into her arms, nails pressing into skin. She could feel her own pulse.

Thirty seconds.

Silence.

Stella didn’t turn around. She heard chairs shift, someone clear their throat. Then the director said, “What’s her name?”

The PA: “Stella. Just an extra.”

“Get her contact info.”

Stella turned. The light was still there. She stood outside it. The white dust hadn’t been wiped from her arm. It was on her fingers, too.

When she walked off the set, wind hit the sweat-damp fabric on her back. Goosebumps rose on her skin.

She pulled out her phone. The screen was cracked, the shattering like a spiderweb. She sat on the curb, opened her notes app, and typed a few words: Today someone saw me.

She stared at the line. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. Then she deleted the words and left only one: Wait.

The phone lit up.

A new message. Unknown number. “Starlight Acting Show audition. Tomorrow at 2 PM. You coming?”

She stared at the screen. The streetlights had just come on, their amber glow falling on the cracked glass. The fracture lines split the words “You coming” into pieces.

Her thumb rested on the screen for a long time. Then she typed one word: Coming.

Sent.

She stood up and shoved the phone back in her pocket. The wound on her knee had already dried, the scab pulling tight against her skin. It hurt a little when she walked.

A convenience store up ahead. She went in and bought the cheapest sparkling water. When she pulled the tab, bubbles splashed onto her wrist—cold. She took a sip. The carbonation rushed up her nose, and her eyes stung. Not crying. Just the bubbles.

The store lights were very white. They made her shadow short, huddled under her feet.

She looked at that shadow.

The corner of her mouth twitched again.

This time, she was really smiling.