When Alice and I first moved into our two-bedroom apartment, I thought it was going to be a great setup. We split the rent and utilities evenly, had a cleaning schedule, and even spent a lot of time together. For the first couple of months, things were smooth.
But about three months later, everything changed. Alice stopped cleaning up after herself completely. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, clothes were tossed everywhere, and the trash overflowed until the whole place smelled. She started inviting friends over unannounced, and they’d leave the living room looking like a frat party aftermath.
Whenever I brought it up, she brushed me off with, “I’ll do it later,” which of course never happened. The worst part? She started calling me “Cinderella” like it was some kind of joke—making it seem like my role in the apartment was to be her maid.
The breaking point came when she had a date with her new boyfriend, Mark. She burst into my room and said, “Chloe, I need the apartment spotless tonight. You love cleaning, don’t you, Cinderella? Make it perfect for me. Who needs a fairy godmother when I have you?”
I wanted to scream—but instead, I smiled and said, “Sure, Alice. I’ll make it perfect.”
That afternoon, I got to work. I scrubbed the floors, polished every surface, and made the kitchen and living room shine. But I had a very specific plan for Alice’s mess.
I gathered every dirty dish she’d left in the sink, every article of clothing she’d thrown across the apartment, and every piece of overflowing trash—and carried it all into her bedroom. I spread it across her dresser, dumped some on her bed, and scattered the garbage in every corner. Then I locked her door and taped a note on it: “Enjoy the clean apartment.”
By the time Alice came home with Mark, the common areas looked immaculate. She proudly showed him around, bragging about how she “loved keeping everything neat and tidy.” I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Then she reached her bedroom. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and froze. Her entire room was overflowing with the mess she’d been ignoring for weeks. Mark stared, horrified.
“Alice, I thought you said you loved cleaning,” he said, stepping back from the disaster.
Alice turned beet red. “This isn’t what it looks like…” she stammered.
I stepped out of the kitchen and said sweetly, “I thought you’d appreciate having all your things in one place, Alice. After all, you love cleaning, right?”
Mark shook his head, clearly unimpressed. “Maybe we should just go out instead,” he said flatly before leaving.
Alice spun on me, furious. “You sabotaged my night! How could you do this?”
I looked her in the eye. “No, Alice. You did this. All I did was show you exactly what I go through every single day cleaning up after you.”
Her anger faltered, and for the first time in months, she actually looked ashamed. After a long silence, she sighed. “Fine. You’re right. I’ve been lazy and unfair. I’ll start doing my part.”
And to my surprise, she actually did. From then on, she picked up after herself, washed her own dishes, and stuck to the cleaning schedule. Slowly, our apartment felt like home again—and our friendship started to recover, too.