Kasky sat alone on the table, his tiny hands pressed against the cold surface, eyes filled with restless tears. His mood had shifted quickly, from quiet waiting to desperate crying, all because his little stomach was empty again. He looked toward the doorway again and again, calling softly at first, then louder, hoping his mom would hear him and come with warm milk.
Each cry carried frustration and need. Kasky wasn’t just hungry; he wanted reassurance. Being up on the table made him feel exposed and unsure, as if the world was suddenly too big for his small body. He rocked back and forth, lips trembling, voice cracking into sharp little calls that echoed through the room.
Time felt slow for him. Every second without feeding felt like being forgotten. His fingers curled tightly, gripping the edge as if holding on could bring his mom back faster. When he paused to catch his breath, his eyes stayed fixed forward, full of expectation and disappointment mixed together.
Finally, footsteps approached. Kasky’s cries changed instantly, turning urgent and hopeful. His body leaned forward, tail stiff, whole being focused on one thing—food and comfort. When mom appeared, his face softened, though tears still clung to his lashes. The anger faded, replaced by relief.
As the bottle touched his lips, Kasky quieted. His small body relaxed, shoulders dropping as warmth spread through him. The table no longer mattered. The crying stopped. In that moment, all the fear, moodiness, and frustration melted away.
Kasky drank peacefully, eyes half-closed, safe again. His cries had done their job. He wasn’t alone, and he never truly was.
