The Heart and the Two Extremes

“Kieu! Bring this cup over to the customer on the left, will you?” “Kieu! Take this sandwich to the customer over here!” “Kieu! Where did you put the cake that was just finished for the guest?” Those were the kinds of sentences that drilled into my brain every single day — like some sort of compulsory ritual I was destined to hear at least once a day. “Aaaah! Come on, brain, you can do this,” I always told myself. Each day felt like a relentless form of t*****e. I worked nonstop, doing everything I could to help my parents and my younger sibling. Our family was poor, and my father, having married late and aged quickly, was stuck in outdated mindsets. That made our whole household lag behind the pace of the modern world. But still, I didn’t hate my dad. In fact, I actually liked listening to the life lessons and military experiences he passed on to me. Maybe because I was lucky enough to grow up in a happy family, I often felt... useless — like I was just enjoying the comfort without giving back. So whenever I finished studying, I ran off to find part-time jobs. And that’s how I ended up in this screaming, chaotic life I now call "work." During slow hours at the hotel, or during breaks, I often lost myself in romance novels or audio stories—completely immersed in those rosy-pink daydreams. Maybe that’s why I started having delusions about love. Every time someone looked at me, I’d get shy and wonder if they secretly liked me. Haiz... such a true Pisces, right? Someone, please save meeee!!! One afternoon, while walking to the convenience store, I suddenly saw someone—covered in blood! His whole body trembled, drenched in red, blood soaking through his clothes. People passed by like nothing had happened. No one called for help. No one cared that a human life was fading away before their eyes. At that moment, only one word flashed in my mind: "Save." Without thinking, I rushed to him and shouted, “Sir! Are you okay??” He didn’t respond. I immediately called an ambulance, tearing off my favorite jacket to wrap his wounds and stop the bleeding. Thankfully, the ambulance arrived quickly and took him away—leaving me behind, alone in a sea of curious strangers whispering about what just happened. I stood up slowly, overwhelmed by a storm of unanswered questions: “Will he survive?” “How can he repay me if he doesn’t even know who I am?” “The hospital bills must be insane…” Thoughts crashed around in my head, stirring up anxiety and helplessness. “Alright… let’s at least find out if he’s okay…” And so, I wandered from hospital to hospital, breathless and tired. Just as I was about to give up, I saw a nurse treating a patient who was still drenched in blood. Thank God. I finally found him. He was in Room 502 — one of the most luxurious rooms in the entire hospital. Not many people ever entered that ward. Hospitals still had their own unspoken rules about wealth, after all... Peeking inside, I saw the room packed with doctors. Suddenly, someone’s voice pierced through the quiet night: “Oh my gosh! Who’s visiting Room 502 this late at night?!”