Two teaspoons of cinnamon. I measure the rust-colored spice and dump it into the bowl. It sits like a tiny brown hill atop the mountain of flour and sugar.

Baking has become my therapy these past few weeks. Tipping ingredients into measuring spoons and cups gives my anxious hands something to do other than pulling at my hair.

Everyone always talks about “pulling their hair out” when their kid eats a crayon or the dishwasher breaks. They don’t mean it literally. It’s a different case for me. My hands find solace in plucking strand after strand when the silence starts to become tangible like water pressure. Anxiety needs a place to land, and it likes to possess my fingers, sending them to harvest strands of hair.

Handling cinnamon and sugar gives the restlessness somewhere else to go.

One teaspoon of pumpkin pie spice. I add the mixture on top of the cinnamon, both burnt-orange spices tumbling together down the side of the flour mound.

Rain rattles on the roof overhead. My eyes flick to the window. The air is streaked with the sky’s tears and the fallen leaves on the porch lay soggy and limp. I remember the autumns when I would romp through the curling leaves and relish their crunch. My brothers and I would pretend to be walking on a road of sweet potato chips. Now, the leaves just droop lethargically over the porch’s floor like sopping wet patchwork.

A swelling sensation creeps into my stomach like my heart is caving in. I’ve felt this wave of vacancy many times over the past three weeks. Society would call it loneliness. I think that there is no linguistic way to name it.

Beeping from the oven pierces through my consciousness, screeching that its stomach is hot enough to be fed my muffin batter. My hands tremble as I drop a teaspoon of baking powder onto my mountain range of ingredients.

I still have a whole Tupperware of salted caramel cookies in the fridge and half a bin of apple turnovers resting patiently on the countertop. There’s no way I’ll be able to consume all of my bakes, even with the emotional eating lapses. Still, I can’t stop pulling up recipes and emptying my kitchen of ingredients. If I don’t bake, I’ll lay in bed and, like the leaves outside, become limp and useless. I’ll start ridding my scalp of hair and drowning in that thick, surging hollowness.

I slowly pour the batter into the blush pink cupcake liners that look like tiny pleated skirts. I glance out towards my living room. Past the big, rainy window I see my neighbor, Maxon Sommers, sitting out on his front porch with his guitar.

I’ve only spoken with Maxon a polite handful of times, whether it be a hasty “Good morning,” or meaningless “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” He seems like a nice, solid guy figuring out how to navigate life. He often sits outside and plays his guitar, concocting original melodies. The whole neighborhood loves him. I guess that as the new reserved, fresh-out-of-college girl across the street, I should show more neighborly care.

And I would, if it weren’t for the way the walls of my house seem to wrap around me like a blanket, able to hold all the anxiety, emotions, and thoughts inside. These floors and furniture and rooms are lethally comfortable. I can feel their true identity slowly becoming obvious. This house is a cell, keeping me from community and freedom and joy. I feel it in the loneliness that eats away at my bones.

I slide the tray of muffins onto the oven rack, avoiding the waft of hot air the oven exhales. I punch in the correct amount of time on the stovetop’s timer, each beep cutting into the tangled web of my mind.

I wipe my trembling hands on my apron and lean against the counter. My gaze lands on the extra apple turnovers sitting beside me, then flicks back out to the figure of Maxon still propped on his porch.

The idea that then wriggles into my head is absolutely and utterly intrusive, but I snatch it as quickly as I can, locking it in before I can change my mind.

Pulling my apron off, I start bustling around the kitchen. I find a cute little basket and line it with a clean linen dish towel.

I remember how back in the eighth grade the pressure from school assignments would crush me to the ground. I remember how easily self-pity came, like a sweeping wave, giving me tunnel vision for just myself and my issues. I remember how the only thing that could save me was helping my mom with chores, or wrapping a random gift for a friend, or watercoloring a card for my grandma. Doing something for someone else has always saved me from the undertow of spiraling thoughts.

I don’t see why it wouldn’t work now.

When I have some apple turnovers and salted caramel cookies prettily arranged in the basket, I cover them with the towel’s corners, pull on my boots, slip into a coat, and reach for the doorknob.

My hand floats, quivering two inches from it. My fingers reach up and start pulling at my hair.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should stay inside. It’s raining.

I don’t want to be a bother. This is unnecessary.

Inconvenient.

I grit my teeth and grab the doorknob, stepping out into the sorrowful rainy air. As I walk across the street, the sky drizzles with its tears. This will be good. I need to do this.

Maxon looks up at me approaching. A smile paints itself onto his face, slicing through the dismal weather. His hands stop dancing along his guitar strings.

“Hi,” he calls, setting the instrument down and rising to his feet.

I reach the foot of his porch and muster up a smile that feels more awkward than friendly. “Hi. Your playing is–it’s beautiful.”

He laughs, deep and kind. “Ah, thank you. I like to sit out here and play sometimes when the weather inspires me.” He gestures to the weepy gray sky. Maxon’s eyes match the clouds above, rich and gray and churning with artistry.

My smile morphs into something more genuine. Only a true artist would find this weather inspiring.

I remember the basket in my hand. “Oh–um, yeah, I saw you out here and thought I’d stop by. I’ve been baking a ton lately with this weather and, um, I’ve been making much more than I can eat. I thought I’d give some to you.”

I hold out the basket, praying he doesn’t notice how my hands shake when he takes it. Heat slithers around my neck and across my cheeks.

“Oh jeez, thank you so much,” Maxon exclaims. Authentic, joyful surprise sparks in his stormy gray eyes as he receives the gift with steady hands.

Warmth bleeds into my chest, flooding out the gaping, hungry hollowness. “Yeah, of course.”

He looks up and smiles. That smile makes the rain and chill and clouds fade into the background. “Hey, you know the church just up the road? I lead worship there. How would you feel about coming over and joining us this coming Sunday for the service? The people there feel like genuine sunshine—they’d love to meet you.”

My fingers twist the fabric of my coat inside my pockets. The warmth inside of me wavers. “Uh…thank you. Thank you so much, I…”

I’ll what? Have to brutally reject the kind invitation because I’ll have a panic attack in the middle of the sermon?

“Hey,” Maxon says, “no pressure. I just thought as the new girl in town you could use a little community. I know how it feels to be stuck indoors all the time.”

I clench my hands into fists, but they’ve stopped trembling. His words seep into my soul, making a cozy home there and giving birth to that lovely warm feeling.

I meet his eyes and smile. “Thank you. I’ll think about it. Ah, I still have some muffins in the oven I should get back to… Thank you for the invitation. Have a good day!”

“Yeah, yeah, you have a good one too. Uh, you’re Esther, right?” he adds as I start to turn away. “I got that right?”

He remembers my name.

“Yes, that’s me,” I reply.

Maxon smiles again, gray eyes bright. “Awesome, see you around, Esther. And thanks again.” He holds up the basket.

I tell him “You’re welcome” and make my way back across the street. My hands are warm and still. The swelling emptiness is fading. As I open my front door and step inside, I swear I hear the pretty guitar melody once again fluttering through the air.

For the remainder of the day my hands don’t once feel the need to pluck at my hair.

Madison Kanagy

Madison Kanagy is a homeschooled writer based in Pennsylvania where she enjoys writing poetry and short stories. She plans to someday publish books that appeal to young generations and promote biblical values and authenticity. Madison adores Jesus, and her biggest goal is to reflect His holy character every day.