Chamroeun sat alone on the cool floor, shoulders slumped, eyes searching the empty room. The house felt too big without Luna. He hugged his knees and screamed, a loud, aching call meant only for her ears. His voice bounced off the walls, growing sharper with every breath, until his chest fluttered and his hands shook.
He stood, then sat again, unsure what to do with all the waiting. Toys lay nearby, ignored. Chamroeun pushed one away and cried harder, calling Luna’s name like a promise and a plea together. He believed she would hear him if he tried enough times. He believed loud love could pull her back.
Caregivers watched quietly, hearts heavy. They spoke softly, offering comfort, but Chamroeun turned his face away. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted Luna. Without her, play felt pointless, laughter impossible. He stamped his foot, screamed again, then paused to listen, hope flickering in the silence.
Minutes stretched. His screams cracked into sobs, then surged back, fueled by loneliness. He paced the room, stopping by the door, pressing his ear close. The world outside felt unfairly busy while his own stood still. He called again, louder than before, a brave sound from a small body.
At last, footsteps approached. Chamroeun froze, breath held. The door opened and Luna appeared, smiling, arms wide. He cried once more, then ran, stumbling into her embrace. His screams melted into relief, shoulders loosening as he clung tightly.
Together they sat on the floor, foreheads touching, breathing in sync. The room softened. Loneliness lifted. Chamroeun laughed quietly, the sound fragile and new. Play resumed, gentle and shared. He learned something important that day: calling for love can hurt, but being answered heals everything, especially small hearts learning how to wait. And the house remembered joy, warmth, and belonging.
