Baby Monkey Juno had never felt fear like this before. The moment he was carried outdoors, the world suddenly became too big, too loud, too bright. Strange sounds floated through the air—birds calling, leaves rustling, distant human voices—and each noise made his tiny body jolt in panic.
Juno’s eyes widened, round and glossy with fear. His little hands grabbed at the air, searching desperately for something familiar. When his feet touched the ground, he cried out loudly, a sharp, broken sound filled with confusion and terror. This place was not his room. This place did not smell like safety.
He tried to cling to himself, curling inward, but it wasn’t enough. His chest heaved as sobs burst out again and again. His cries weren’t angry—they were pleading. He wanted arms. He needed warmth. He needed to be held.
Every passing shadow made him flinch. A gentle breeze brushed his fur, and Juno screamed louder, pressing his face down as if hiding could make the outside disappear. His tail curled tightly around his body, shaking with each breath.
When mom knelt down, Juno reached up instantly with both hands. His fingers trembled as they wrapped around her shirt, refusing to let go. The moment he was lifted, his cries changed. They softened. Still desperate, but full of relief.
He buried his face into her chest, clinging as tight as his tiny strength allowed. His body slowly relaxed, sobs turning into shaky hiccups. The frightening noises faded. The wide world shrank back into something manageable.
Mom rocked him gently, whispering softly. Juno listened, eyes half-closed now, still scared but safe. He stayed pressed against her, afraid that if he loosened his grip, the fear would return.
Even as the crying stopped, his hands remained locked in place. Juno wasn’t ready to face the outside yet. And that was okay.
Because sometimes, the bravest thing a baby can do is ask to be held.
