"Six months ago," Hà said. "But it gets worse every time I draw a heart."
"Love is a chemical imbalance," he told his medical students. "Dopamine, oxytocin. A temporary madness. If it were an organ, I'd cut it out."
"You have very kind eyes for a surgeon," she said.
"Why a heart?" Lân asked. "Why does drawing a heart hurt you?" phu luc tinh yeu tap 1 thuyet minh
Since this exact title isn't a widely known film or book (it may be a fan-created concept, a local series, or a slight misremembering of a title like "Phụ Lục Của Tình Yêu" ), I will based on the mood and meaning of that title.
"She's fine," he told the nurses. "No appendicitis."
At 2 AM, he walked to her room. The lights were off, but Hà was awake, drawing by moonlight. "Six months ago," Hà said
"That's the fluorescent lighting," Lân replied flatly. "When did the pain start?"
"I don't know who he is," Hà whispered. "But I've been drawing him for weeks. And every time I do, my side burns."
"Doctor?" she said.
No results.
Lân felt something strange. A small, quiet ache. Deep in his own right side. Lân scheduled her appendectomy for the next morning. But the night before, he couldn't sleep. He opened his laptop and searched: "Psychosomatic appendicitis – pain mirroring another person."
