Chasing Starlight

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.