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I creamed the butter and sugar while an old pop song played through the tiny speaker near the sink. The beat reached that spot behind my ribs before anxiety could object. I moved around the kitchen, adding eggs one at a time and using the wooden spoon as a microphone between steps.

I didn’t sing well, but that had never stopped me.

There were entire pieces of myself that only appeared when nobody else was around. The version of me who danced while waiting for water to boil. The one who made dramatic facial expressions at the oven and narrated minor household tasks in an accent that belonged to no known country. The one who laughed at her own thoughts instead of inspecting them for flaws.

She came out when I read and drew and baked.

Solitary activities with clear boundaries gave her room to exist. There was no audience, no evaluation, and no possibility that someone would ask why I hadn’t done it better.

I added the dry ingredients gradually and folded them into the batter. My arms tired sooner than they should have, but that happened sometimes.

I knew I was too thin. Not fashionably thin. Not elegant or delicate in the way strangers occasionally implied when they said things such as you’re so lucky to have such a high metabolism, or I wish I forgot to eat.

I didn’t forget exactly. I postponed.

Eating required groceries. Groceries required money, planning, gas for transportation, storage, preparation, and the emotional resilience to watch produce decay after I lost interest in whatever meal I’d intended to make.

Keeping an adult human body properly fed was unreasonably demanding. Three meals every day? The repetition seemed excessive. I knew this was not ideal, but I also still got my period regularly, which I’d decided meant things could not be that bad. Surely my body would submit a more formal complaint if the situation became urgent.

I would make a meal plan, eventually. A real one that contained protein, vegetables, healthy fats, and the correct carb ratio. Things that required chopping.

Next week.

I snorted. I had been planning to begin next week for nearly eight months.

I slid the tray into the oven, set a timer, and licked batter from the spoon despite every warning about raw eggs I’d ever read.

It tasted worth the risk.

While the cupcakes baked, I made simple vanilla frosting. Powdered sugar escaped the bowl and covered part of the counter, my shirt, and one sock. I kept dancing.

For twenty minutes, my apartment didn’t feel lonely.

The scent of butter, vanilla, and sugar permeated the air. Music filled the rooms. I sang into the spoon and imagined an audience that had paid heavily for the privilege. In my version, they were moved by the performance. Several cried. One woman near the front reconsidered her marriage.

The timer interrupted my encore.

The cupcakes had risen properly, their tops pale gold and rounded. I set them near the window to cool and cleaned the kitchen, which was the least believable part of my fantasy, but necessary if I wanted to use the counter again.

When they were finally ready, I frosted them, then added the colored sugar I had bought before Christmas and never used.

I arranged the cupcakes on a tray and took a picture. For a moment, I considered posting it somewhere. But I hadn’t used social media in nearly four months because every platform made me feel like everyone else had figured out how to live life perfectly while I was still trying to complete the private tutorial on basic adult life skills.

I ate one at the kitchen counter. It was soft and sweet, the frosting slightly too rich. It was delicious.

I ate a second more slowly, then looked at the remaining ten. My stomach was full.

The tray sat between my hands, looking cheerful and ridiculous.

Ten cupcakes. One person.

The math was unkind.

I could freeze them. Probably. I could eat one every day until the frosting began to taste like the inside of my refrigerator. I could leave some in the apartment lobby with a note, although all the tenants in the building had recently received an email about unauthorized food distribution after someone abandoned a slow cooker of chili near the mailboxes.

My next thought was Missy. It arrived so naturally that I reached for my phone before remembering why I shouldn’t.

My cousin had always loved vanilla cupcakes. When we were kids, she ate the frosting first and saved the cake for last, which I considered both chaotic and impressive. We had spent most of our childhood together, then high school, then college breaks, each period connected by the assumption that whatever changed around us would not change us.