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.

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.

Chapter 3: The Audition – Raw and Real

The hallway outside the audition hall smelled of floor wax and nervous sweat.

Stella stood in line, her hands shoved into her jacket pockets. Her palms were wet. She pulled her right hand out and wiped it on her jeans. The fabric darkened where her palm pressed against it.

Up ahead, a girl was practicing her lines in a whisper. Another touched up her lipstick using her phone's front camera. Stella looked down at her own shoes. The toe was scuffed, the leather peeled back in a small curl.

A production assistant stuck her head out of the door. "Next three. You—" she pointed at Stella, "—last group."

Stella nodded. Her throat was dry.

She looked at the ceiling. Fluorescent lights, one flickering. The buzz was barely audible, but she could feel it in her teeth.

The two people in front of her went in. The door closed behind them.

She could hear muffled voices through the wall. Then silence. Then applause—polite, not loud.

Her toes curled inside her shoes. She uncurled them. Then curled them again.

The door opened. The two before her walked out. One was crying. The other was on her phone, already typing.

"Stella Ye."

She stepped inside.

The room was larger than she expected. Three judges sat behind a long table. The one in the middle—Director Zhao—she recognized from magazine covers. The lights from the ceiling were hot. They hit the back of her neck, and she could feel sweat starting to form at her hairline.

The floor was wood. Her shoes made a small squeak when she walked to the center.

"Your resume says you've been a background actor for three years," Director Zhao said. He didn't look up from her form. "Any lead roles? Any lines?"

"No."

"Training?"

"No."

He looked up then. His eyes were sharp. "Then why are you here?"

Stella's mouth opened. Closed. The corner of her lip twitched—that wrong reaction again. Almost a smile.

She wanted to say: Because years ago, a smile made me believe I could be more.

What came out was: "I can act."

A pause. The judge on the left chuckled. The judge on the right wrote something down.

Director Zhao leaned back. "Show me. No lines. Thirty seconds. You're waiting for someone you'll never see again. Go."

Stella stood still for a heartbeat.

Then she walked to the side of the room, pulled a wooden chair into the center, and sat down.

The chair was hard. The edge of the seat pressed into the backs of her thighs.

She looked at the door—the one she had walked through. That was where "he" would come in. But she knew he wouldn't.

She waited.

One second. Two. Five.

She pulled out her phone from her pocket—an imaginary phone, but her hand knew the shape. Her thumb swiped across the screen. No new messages.

She put it down on her knee. Picked it up again. Checked again.

Nothing.

Her thumb hovered over the screen—hesitating, wanting to type something, not knowing what to say. She put the phone down on her thigh. Then she picked it up again. This time, she didn't unlock it. She just held it, pressed against her chest, the cold glass warming against her collarbone.

Her fingers curled around the edges of the phone.

She stopped checking.

She just sat there, the phone against her chest, her eyes on the door.

Not crying. Not screaming. Just waiting. In a way that made it clear—she had been waiting for a long time. And she would keep waiting. Even though she knew no one was coming.

The room was silent.

Director Zhao didn't say "cut." He didn't say anything.

Stella stayed in the moment. Her thumb pressed into the imaginary phone's side button—once, twice. Her lips pressed together. Then her chin lifted, just slightly—not hope, just the refusal to let go of it.

Thirty seconds had passed a while ago.

But no one stopped her.

She finally lowered the phone, set it on her knee, and looked at the empty door one more time. Then she stood up, pushed the chair back to where it belonged, and faced the judges.

Her hands were cold. But her chest was warm where the phone had been.

The judge on the left cleared his throat. The judge on the right stopped writing.

Director Zhao stared at her. "Who were you waiting for?"

Stella's throat moved. She swallowed.

"Someone who made me believe I could be here," she said. Softly.

Another silence.

Then Director Zhao turned to the assistant by the door. "Get her contract. She's in."

The judge on the left leaned over. "Zhao, she has no training—"

"I don't care."

He said it like the conversation was over.

Stella stood in the center of the room, the hot lights still on the back of her neck. She didn't move.

"Tomorrow," Director Zhao said, looking at her. "Sign the contract tomorrow. Don't be late."

She nodded. Her lips parted. Closed. No words came out.

She turned and walked out of the room.

The hallway was still the same—floor wax, fluorescent buzz, the smell of nervous sweat. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

She walked to the end of the hall, pushed through the exit, and stepped outside.

The rain had stopped. The air smelled like wet earth.

She stood on the steps, her hands in her pockets. Her fingers found her phone. She pulled it out. No cracks on the screen—imaginary phone, real phone, the line had blurred for a second.

She called Lynn.

Her hands were still shaking when she pressed the phone to her ear.

"I got in," she said.

Lynn screamed on the other end. The sound was too loud, but Stella didn't pull the phone away.

She walked down the steps, crossed the street, and went into a convenience store. She bought the cheapest sparkling water she could find. The tab was cold against her thumb when she pulled it. Bubbles splashed onto her wrist.

She stood outside, drinking, looking up at the building across the street.

Somewhere up there, in a window, a man in a dark jacket was looking at a list of names. His thumb stopped on one: Stella Ye.

He frowned.

Stella didn't see him.

She crumpled the empty can, dropped it in the recycling bin, and smiled at the streetlight as it flickered on.

She didn't know what was coming.

But for now, she was in.