Chasing Starlight

Chapter 2: The Ruins of a Movie Star

The lights in the audition room were white. White without mercy.

Ethan Shen sat in the chair, his back not leaning against it. His spine pressed against the hard wooden edge, the coolness seeping through his shirt and into his skin. The script rested on his knee. The edges of the pages were cold. His thumb pressed down on the paper, feeling the fibers.

"Begin."

The director's voice came from across the room. Ethan looked down at the script, his eyes landing on the line—

"I do."

Three words. He had read them countless times. Every single time, he got stuck at the same place.

His breathing slowed. Not deliberately. His body did it on its own. The intervals between his breaths lengthened, as if oxygen wasn't reaching him properly. His fingers started to go cold, the chill spreading from his fingertips into his palms, like something was draining the warmth out of him.

He opened his mouth.

"I..."

His voice was low—so low that only he could hear it. Something was lodged in his throat, the words stuck behind his vocal cords, unable to come out.

"I do." Three words. He couldn't finish even one.

The director waited a few seconds. Then a few more.

Ethan's gaze lifted from the script and landed on the white wall across from him. A thin crack ran along the wall, stretching from the ceiling down like a dry riverbed.

"Let's... take a break?"

The director's voice was soft, carrying that gentle tone of someone who already knew the answer.

Ethan stood up. The script slid off his knee, the pages fluttering apart in the air, turning twice before hitting the floor. He bent down to pick it up. His fingertips trembled when they touched the paper. Not a violent tremor—a small one, like the aftershiver of a plucked string.

He picked up the script. One corner was folded. He smoothed it with his thumb, very slowly.

"Mr. Shen, this drama has a heavy emotional core. We need—"

"I know."

He cut off the director's sentence. His voice was flat, as if commenting on the weather. But his back teeth started to ache, a dull soreness spreading to his temples.

He walked out of the audition room.

The air conditioning in the hallway was set too low. Cold air poured down from the vents above, and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up one by one. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor—the dry sound of leather soles hitting ceramic tiles.

Cheng Hao stood by the elevator, a bottle of water in his hand.

"How did it go?"

Ethan didn't answer. He took the bottle. It was cold. Moisture wet his palm. He didn't twist off the cap. He just held it.

The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside. Cheng Hao pressed the button for the first floor. The doors closed. The mirrored wall reflected Ethan's face. He looked at it for a second, then looked away.

"You weren't like this three years ago."

Cheng Hao's voice wasn't loud. He was stating a fact, not placing blame.

Ethan didn't respond. His thumb rubbed the ridges of the bottle cap, over and over—the grooves pressing into his finger pad, one circle, then another.

"I read the script," Cheng Hao continued. "It is heavy on emotion. But with your ability—"

"I can't act it."

Four words. Calm.

His back teeth ached again. He clenched his jaw. The soreness spread from his gums to his cheekbones. A faint ringing filled his eardrums.

Cheng Hao was silent for a few seconds. The elevator was descending. The floor numbers ticked down.

"I signed you up for a variety show."

Ethan turned his head. Cheng Hao wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the elevator doors.

"Starlight Acting Show. Contestants get paired up—contract couples. I already signed the bet agreement." Cheng Hao finally turned, his eyes landing on Ethan's face. "You have to go."

The doors opened.

The light in the lobby was much brighter than the hallway. Fluorescent tubes shone on the tiles, reflecting harsh, glaring spots. Ethan walked out of the elevator. Cheng Hao followed.

People passed by in the lobby. Some recognized him and glanced twice. He ignored them.

At the revolving door, he stopped.

"Who's my partner?"

"A nobody from the open audition. Not decided yet." Cheng Hao said. "Not a trained actor, anyway. Just don't scare her off like you always do."

Ethan's hand pressed against the glass of the revolving door. The glass was cold. Its surface was smooth. His fingerprint smeared on it, soon fogged over by condensation.

He pushed the door and walked out.

Outside, the sun was harsh. It hit his face, and his skin felt a flash of heat. But his fingers were still cold.

Cheng Hao caught up and handed him the car keys. He took them. His knuckles were white.

"Tomorrow, 2 PM. Production team meeting." Cheng Hao said. "Don't be late."

Ethan walked toward the parking lot. The soles of his shoes pressed into the asphalt pavement, softened by the sun. The ground felt like wet cement that hadn't set.

He got into the car and closed the door.

The interior was stuffy. The seat was scorching hot. When his back touched it, his skin felt a sting of heat. He didn't turn on the air conditioning. His fingers rested on the steering wheel, his thumb pads pressing into the leather grain.

The clock on the dashboard read 2:43 PM.

He stared at the time for a long while.

Then he started the engine.

The car pulled out of the parking lot and merged into traffic. The scenery outside the windows scrolled backward—tall buildings, overpasses, roadside trees—all moving away. He gripped the steering wheel. The chill in his fingers hadn't faded, but his palms began to sweat, the leather turning slippery.

Red light.

He stopped. In the adjacent lane, a city bus. Through the windows, a passenger looked down at his phone. Another leaned against the seat, dozing. A child pressed his face against the glass, his nose flattening against it.

The child saw Ethan, froze, then turned to say something to the mother beside him.

The mother looked over. Her eyes widened.

Green light.

Ethan stepped on the gas. The car lunged forward. In the rearview mirror, the bus grew smaller and smaller.

Back at his apartment's underground parking garage, the light was dim. His headlights illuminated concrete pillars. Dust motes floated in the beams. He turned off the engine. The interior lights died. Darkness closed in.

In the dark, he sat still.

His breathing was slow.

His fingers were cold.

He raised his hand and looked at his palm under the weak green glow of the emergency lights. Palm lines crisscrossed. An old scar on the base of his thumb—he couldn't remember when he got it.

His phone lit up. A message from Cheng Hao: "Tomorrow 2 PM, Starlight Tower. Don't keep the investors waiting."

He typed two words: "Got it."

Sent.

The screen dimmed. He lit it up again and looked. The lock screen was an old photo—two hands, wedding bands on their ring fingers. The photo was casual, taken in a car, the background blurry.

He turned the phone over and set it face-down on the passenger seat.

Then he got out and closed the door.

The elevator was empty. The mirrored walls reflected his face—high brow bone, dark circles under his eyes, dry lips. He looked at the person in the mirror. The person looked back.

The elevator reached the 12th floor. The doors opened. Motion‑sensor lights in the hallway flicked on—dim, yellow.

He walked to unit 1203. The fingerprint lock beeped. The door opened.

The apartment was dark. The curtains were drawn. He walked in without turning on the lights. His shoes stepped onto the floorboards, a dull thud. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. The soft rustle of fabric was very faint.

He sank into the couch.

Light leaked through the gap in the curtains—a thin line falling on the floor, like a shallow scar.

The script was in his bag. He didn't take it out.

His back teeth still ached.

He closed his eyes.

His breathing was as slow as if he were already asleep. But his fingers were still cold.