Stranger on the Screen

It started with a lukewarm beer and a WeChat message from my college roommate. On Friday night, as usual, I bought a canned beer and a bag of peanuts from the convenience store, preparing to while away the start of another weekend alone. The screen lit up. It was Xiaoyun. She sent a screenshot with a message: "Meiling, when did you become an actress? And in such a hit drama!"

I stared at the blurry screenshot. The background seemed to be a palace scene from some historical drama, with a crowd in lavish costumes surrounding the main character. And at the very edge of the crowd, near a carved pillar, stood a woman dressed as a palace maid. Her head was bowed, her face in profile to the camera, devoid of expression, or rather, an almost blank expression, as if waiting for something, yet also as if she had long given up waiting. That face, undoubtedly, was mine.

"Are you kidding?" I replied. "I don't even know what color the dirt in Hengdian is."

"See for yourself! The drama's called Glazed Dream (Liu Li Meng), it's super popular right now! Episode 3, 14 minutes and 35 seconds in, it's definitely you!" Xiaoyun sent a video clip link.

I clicked the link, fast-forwarding to the specified time. My heart inexplicably raced, like awaiting a verdict that had nothing to do with me. The frame froze. The woman in the pale pink palace maid outfit, with her simple bun, appeared again, paused for a few seconds, then moved slowly with the crowd, disappearing off-screen. It was indeed me. The exact same eyes and brows, the same curve of the lips, even the inconspicuous mole above my left eyebrow was clearly visible.

But I swore, I had never participated in the filming of any movie or TV show. My life was as simple as a glass of plain water: working as a planning assistant at a mid-sized advertising agency, following a fixed commute route, with a narrow social circle. My biggest adventure was occasionally trying a newly opened coffee shop. Becoming a background extra in a hit drama was more bizarre than finding a million yuan on the street.

A strange chill crept up my spine. This wasn't a pleasant surprise, but something akin to violation. My face, my image, without my knowledge, had been copied and pasted into a fictional story, becoming a silent symbol. That "me" on the screen, who was she? Why was she there? Was her blankness the director's request, or a reflection of her own soul? And what connection did that soul have with mine, clutching a beer can, feeling waves of dizziness?

The next few days, it was like I was possessed. I was distracted at work, constantly replaying those few seconds in my mind. I started searching online for information about Glazed Dream, looking for behind-the-scenes footage, trying to find any clue about the recruitment of extras. Nothing. The production company seemed like an impenetrable fortress, all information carefully packaged.

I tried contacting the TV station and the production company. Calls were always dropped after lengthy hold music and transfers between different departments. The one time I managed to reach a human customer service representative, they responded in a standardized, emotionless tone: "Regarding extras, we are not responsible for that here. It might have been arranged by an outsourced human resources company. Do you have a specific contract or evidence? Without it, we cannot verify."

"Evidence? The proof is my face appearing in your show!" I almost wanted to roar into the phone.

"Ma'am, many people contact us every day saying they look like a certain actor or passerby. If you don't have concrete evidence proving that it is you, and that it was filmed without your knowledge, it's difficult for us to proceed." The voice was like a wall coated in talcum powder; my anger and questions slid off softly, leaving no trace.

I felt a profound sense of powerlessness, like K in a Kafka novel, facing a vast, indifferent, yet omnipresent system. My existence had been split; one part remained in my physical body, the other exiled to the fictional world on screen, becoming a nameless shadow without a past.

Nights became long. I started suffering from insomnia, having the same recurring dream. In the dream, I wore that ill-fitting palace maid costume, standing in a huge, empty studio. Blinding lights shone on me, and a blurry figure holding a megaphone yelled at me: "Expression! More numb! Yes, like you've already died once!" I wanted to run, but my feet felt heavy as lead.

The boundary between reality and fiction began to blur. Walking down the street, I always felt like someone was secretly aiming a camera at me. The gazes of passersby seemed to carry scrutiny. Had I unknowingly become a background character in someone else's story again? Would my every movement, every expression, be captured, edited, and then assigned a meaning beyond my control?

The feeling was suffocating. I felt like a rabbit exposed in an open field, not knowing when or from which direction the predator would appear. The world turned into a giant film set, and I, along with everyone like me, were potential, unwitting actors.

One afternoon, I sat by the window, watching the traffic below. Sunlight made the dust particles clearly visible, like a perpetual golden drizzle. A thought suddenly entered my mind, carrying a thrill close to mischief and the decisiveness of throwing caution to the wind: Since I couldn't escape that shadow on the screen, I might as well become her.

The next day, I submitted my resignation letter to the company. Then, I went to a wholesale clothing market and bought a cheap historical costume remarkably similar in color and style to the one in the show. I mimicked the image of that shadow from memory, putting my hair up in a simple bun, wearing no makeup, and trying hard to replicate that blank expression, which seemed to see through everything yet know nothing.

Dressed in my "costume," I began to wander aimlessly through the city. I walked through crowded pedestrian streets, lingered in quiet parks, sat on the cold seats of the subway, observing the hurrying people. At first, people would cast curious or even wary glances, but soon they got used to it, treating me as just another harmless eccentric in the urban landscape.

I no longer tried to find answers, no longer questioned how the "stranger on the screen" had appeared. I responded to this equally absurd world with a kind of absurd performance art. I became that shadow, or rather, the shadow and I merged into one. I didn't know if this counted as resistance; perhaps it was more like surrender, a Wang Xiaobo-esque self-exile tinged with black humor. What is existence? Maybe it's just a B-movie, randomly shot and edited.

On a drizzly afternoon, I walked into a coffee shop I frequented. Sitting down by the window, I ordered a black coffee. A thin layer of condensation fogged the windowpane, reflecting my blurred face, gradually overlapping with the palace maid from the screen in my memory. Just then, I overheard two young girls whispering at the next table:

"Look, that person..." "Hm? What about her?" "She looks kind of familiar... Doesn't she look like that palace maid who flashed by in an episode of Glazed Dream? The one with the really distinct expression..." "Maybe... she does look a bit like her! How strange."

I lifted my coffee cup and took a small sip. The bitter liquid slid down my throat. Outside, the rain continued to fall, silently washing the stage of this giant city. A faint, inscrutable smile touched my lips. Was it mockery? Sorrow? Or the peace of finally finding a place? I didn't know myself. Perhaps, this itself was just another shot, open to interpretation. Anyway, the show had begun.