Baby monkey Shala lay on the bed, her small body stiff with a bad mood that refused to pass. Daddy had just left, and even though it was only for a moment, to Shala it felt sudden and unfair. The warmth beside her was gone. The familiar presence disappeared. And that absence hurt more than words.
At first, she cried loudly, kicking the bed with her tiny feet and throwing her arms in protest. Her tantrum came fast and fierce. She screamed toward the doorway, as if her voice could pull daddy back. Her face turned red, brows furrowed deeply, eyes wet with anger and confusion. Why did he leave? Why now?
When no one came back immediately, her cries changed. The loud screams faded into sharp sobs. Shala rolled onto her side, clutching the blanket tightly. Her lips trembled. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. She wasn’t just upset—she felt abandoned.
She sat up for a moment, scanning the room with desperate eyes, then flopped back down in frustration. The bed felt too big. Too empty. She slapped the mattress once, then curled up small, tail wrapped close, trying to protect herself from the feeling inside.
Minutes passed slowly. Shala’s tantrum drained her strength. Her cries became quiet whimpers, broken by sniffles. She stared at the spot where daddy had been, her eyes heavy, still angry but now deeply sad. All she wanted was reassurance—someone to come back and say she wasn’t forgotten.
When daddy finally returned, Shala didn’t rush to him. She turned her face away, pretending not to care, though her body leaned slightly in his direction. Daddy sat beside her, gently touching her back. Slowly, she relaxed. Her anger softened. Her breathing calmed.
Shala didn’t need explanations. She needed presence. And once she felt it again, the storm inside her slowly faded into quiet trust.
