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