The tiny baby stirred restlessly, his small body twisting and turning with discomfort. Hunger had taken over, an ache too big for such a small frame to bear. His lips puckered, opening and closing in desperate little motions as if searching for milk that wasn’t there. A faint whimper escaped him at first, soft and uncertain, but quickly it grew into louder cries that carried the unmistakable plea of need—he was too hungry, and he could no longer hide it.
His cheeks, once round and full of gentle innocence, now seemed slightly sunken. His skin clung closely to the bones of his face, making his eyes look bigger and more sorrowful. Those eyes, dark and glistening, darted around with confusion, as if asking the world why his tiny stomach remained so painfully empty. He sucked at his fist, but it brought him no comfort—his hand held no milk, only the faint taste of his own salty skin. His cries broke into hiccups, his chest heaving with the effort, and still the hunger gnawed at him.
Every sound he made was urgent, sharp, and raw. The helpless baby kicked his legs wildly, stretching them out and then curling them back in, his body instinctively searching for relief. His belly rumbled faintly, though it seemed too small to hold such noise. He arched his back, his little arms waving in the air, seeking the warmth and nourishment of a mother’s chest. But there was nothing—only his cries echoing into the emptiness.
His mouth trembled, a string of drool slipping down his chin as he let out another desperate wail. His tiny tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, the reflex of a newborn seeking milk, but still none came. The dryness inside his mouth made him fuss even more, smacking his lips in frustration. His hunger wasn’t just discomfort anymore; it was sharp, aching, unbearable. The baby’s whole body shook with it, each cry deeper than the last.
Time passed slowly for him. Seconds felt like hours when each one stretched beneath the weight of his hunger. The world around him blurred, his cries filling the silence like broken music. His face turned red with strain, small veins visible on his temples as he wailed, unable to calm himself. His cries grew hoarse, his voice cracking, but even exhaustion couldn’t silence his need.
There was a deep sadness in the way he clung to the air, reaching for something unseen. His little fingers curled tight, as if trying to grasp nourishment from nothing. Tears welled in his eyes, tiny droplets that streaked down his cheeks, leaving damp trails. His breaths came fast and shallow, mixing with the sobs that shook his chest. The hunger pressed on him like an invisible weight, leaving him fragile, weak, and trembling.
Yet beneath all the suffering, there was a stubborn will to survive. His tiny cries, though fading into tired sobs, still carried the message of life: a plea to be fed, a refusal to give up. His small body might have been weakened by hunger, but his spirit clung fiercely to hope. The baby’s every sound was a demand for care, a reminder that no matter how small he was, his need was vast and urgent.
At last, his cries softened into whimpers, his energy drained but his hunger still raging. His chest rose and fell quickly, his face damp with tears. He drifted into a restless half-sleep, still sucking faintly at the air, his stomach empty but his hope not yet broken.
