Behind the wide glass of "Le Verdi" restaurant in the heart of New York, dim lights danced upon crystal glasses. Sebastian sat in a jacket worth what most people earn in a year, flipping through the menu with obvious boredom. For him, getting a table at one of the busiest restaurants in the city wasn't an "achievement"—it was just a phone call his father's secretary had made.
"Is something wrong, sir?" the waiter asked with a bow that was almost worshipful.
Sebastian replied in a flat tone, "The wine isn't at the right temperature. Take it away." Sebastian had never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed; the world was programmed to respond to the motion of his hand before he even spoke. To him, success wasn't a race—it was a red carpet laid out from the moment he was born.
A few steps away, behind the heavy kitchen door, was an entirely different world.
There, amid rising steam and the harsh smell of detergents, Peter stood at a massive sink. His hands—once dreaming of painting—were now cracked and stained with cheap soap. Peter counted the minutes, not because he hated the job, but because he was calculating how much this "extra shift" would contribute toward heating his run-down apartment on the outskirts of the Bronx.
A crystal glass slipped from a coworker's hand and shattered on the floor. The kitchen manager shouted, "Peter! Clean this up immediately! The cost will be deducted from all your wages if the work isn't finished on time!"
Peter dropped to his knees, carefully gathering the shards. A sharp sting shot through his finger; a small drop of blood stained the marble floor. He didn't groan—he no longer had the luxury of feeling pain. For Peter, every step in life was a battle: earning a living was a battle, getting six hours of uninterrupted sleep was a battle, even preserving his dignity under the manager's shouting was a war of attrition.
At that moment, the kitchen door opened as a waiter stepped out carrying the bottle of wine Sebastian had rejected.
Through the crack in the door, Peter caught a glimpse of Sebastian laughing with a blonde woman. Whatever joke he had made seemed trivial enough, yet it made them laugh without a care in the world.
As Peter pressed on his wounded finger, he wondered: how could the same place hold so much warmth and so much cold at once?
Sebastian left the restaurant an hour later, stepping into his car, which had been waiting with the engine running to keep it warm. He didn't think twice about the cost of dinner, nor did he concern himself with who had washed his dishes. For him, life was a constant "yes."
Peter, on the other hand, left through the back door three hours later, wrapping his thin coat tightly around his frail body as he headed toward the subway station. He had a decision to make: should he buy a bandage for his wound, or save the money to pay for tomorrow's bus fare?
As the train rattled through the darkness, Peter realized the bitter truth: some are born to draw the paths, while others are born to wipe away their footprints. Rain fell over New York—romantic when seen through the glass of Sebastian's restaurant, yet like a whip lashing Peter's back as he ran toward home.