The baby monkey sat on the cold ground, his tiny stomach pressed inward as it growled again. The sound startled him, and he began to cry. His mouth opened wide, his lips trembling as a desperate sound escaped.
“Ahhh… ahhh…”
He was hungry. So hungry it hurt.
His eyes searched everywhere, watery and scared, hoping to see his mother. Every rustle of leaves made his heart jump. Every shadow felt like hope—then disappointment.
He cried louder.
His small hands reached out into the empty air, fingers curling as if trying to grab milk that wasn’t there. His tongue peeked out of his mouth as he cried, dry and pale. His body leaned forward again and again, a baby’s instinct telling him food should come when he cried.
But nothing came.
Earlier that morning, he had drunk milk while clinging tightly to his mother’s chest. The warmth, the smell, the comfort—it was all still inside his memory. Now his mouth felt empty, his stomach burned, and his throat hurt from crying.
“Ma… ma… 🍼”
The sound broke into sobs.
Tears streamed down his face, dripping from his chin onto the dirt. His ears flattened as he cried harder, frustration mixing with fear. He didn’t understand why the milk wasn’t coming. Babies don’t understand loss—only need.
His legs shook as he tried to stand. He took a few weak steps, then fell forward onto his hands. The effort made him cry even more. He beat the ground softly with his fists, angry and tired.
His belly cramped again.
He screamed.
The forest echoed his cries, but it did not answer. Other monkeys moved high in the trees, busy with their own lives. None noticed the tiny baby below, crying for something as simple—and as important—as milk.
His cries became desperate now. His mouth stayed wide open, gasping between sobs. His tongue searched for something to suck, something to calm him. He put his fingers into his mouth, but it was not the same. There was no warmth. No milk.
Only hunger.
His crying slowed into broken whimpers. His body slumped forward, exhausted. He lay on his side, chest rising and falling too fast. Every breath sounded like it hurt.
Still, he cried softly.
“Mm… mm…”
Flies buzzed nearby. He was too weak to chase them away. His eyes fluttered, heavy, but hunger kept him awake. His tiny body trembled, not just from hunger—but from loneliness.
Then footsteps.
The baby lifted his head suddenly and cried with new strength, hope flashing in his eyes. An adult monkey approached carefully. She was not his mother, but she stopped when she saw his condition.
The baby screamed again, louder than before, rolling onto his back and reaching up with both arms. His mouth opened wide, begging without words.
🍼
The adult crouched down, her face tense with concern. She sniffed him gently. He smelled weak. Hungry. Too young to be alone.
She touched his belly lightly.
The baby cried harder, pressing his face against her chest, searching instinctively for milk that was not there. His sobs shook his entire body, raw and painful.
She wrapped an arm around him.
It was not milk.
But it was warmth.
The baby continued to cry, his hunger still sharp, his mouth still searching. But now he was not alone. His cries softened slightly as exhaustion returned.
His stomach was still empty.
But his heart—just a little—felt held.
And as the baby drifted into a restless sleep, his lips still moved, silently asking for one thing only:
🍼
