Pavpav’s mood flipped the moment he realized Mom was about to leave, even if it was only for a few minutes. One second he was calm, the next his face tightened, lips pushing forward, eyes filling with sudden anger and fear. He watched every movement closely, sensing the distance before it even happened.
As Mom turned away, Pavpav exploded into loud cries. He slapped his little hands, kicked his feet, and leaned forward angrily, as if his voice alone could pull her back. To him, a few minutes felt like forever. His cries weren’t just naughty tantrums—they were panic wrapped in frustration.
He screamed sharply, looking toward the doorway again and again. Why now? Why leave me? His tiny chest rose and fell fast, breath uneven, emotions spilling out faster than he could control. Anger mixed with sadness, and tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking his soft fur.
Mom paused, watching him struggle. She spoke gently, explaining she would return soon, but Pavpav didn’t understand time. All he knew was that safety walked away when she did. He cried harder when she reassured him, his body stiff with protest, his heart afraid of being forgotten.
Left alone, Pavpav’s cries echoed through the room. He threw himself down dramatically, rolling slightly, still calling for Mom with everything he had. The world felt too big, too quiet, too empty without her presence. His anger was loud because his love was deep.
Minutes later, footsteps returned. Pavpav froze, eyes wide, ears alert. When Mom reappeared, his anger broke into sobs. He reached out instantly, arms trembling. She lifted him close, holding him against her chest.
The cries softened. His body relaxed. Anger drained away, replaced by relief and warmth. Pavpav buried his face into her, breathing deeply, finally calm.
He wasn’t naughty without reason. Pavpav was emotional, attached, and still learning trust. For him, love meant closeness—and even a few minutes apart felt like losing everything.
