When I first moved into the apartment, I thought having a roommate would make things easier — someone to split the bills with, share the chores, maybe even hang out with from time to time. Milly seemed friendly enough when we met. She had a big smile, a loud laugh, and an easy way of talking that made her seem dependable. I figured we’d get along fine.
At first, everything was okay. But it didn’t take long for little things to start adding up. She never bought essentials — no toilet paper, dish soap, or paper towels — but always used mine. I’d come home to find my snacks gone, my shampoo half-empty, and my laundry detergent sitting in her room. When I mentioned it, she’d laugh it off with a quick “Oh, sorry! I’ll replace it tomorrow,” and of course, tomorrow never came.
Then came the rent issues. Every month, she was late. Always with an excuse — her paycheck hadn’t cleared, her boyfriend owed her money, or she “just needed one more week.” I gave her the benefit of the doubt again and again, believing she’d pay me back when she could. But she never did. I started covering her half just to avoid conflict with the landlord. It wasn’t easy, but I didn’t want to lose the apartment over someone else’s irresponsibility.
Then one afternoon, without a word, Milly was gone.
At first, I didn’t even realize she’d moved out. Her clothes were still in the closet, dishes still in the sink, and her toothbrush still by the bathroom mirror. But after two days of silence, I texted her — nothing. A week passed, then two. Finally, she responded, saying she’d moved in with her boyfriend “for a while” and didn’t think she should have to pay rent because she “wasn’t living there anymore.”
That was the moment I realized just how selfish she really was.
For the next two months, I struggled to keep up with both halves of the rent, draining my savings and living off instant noodles. Every message I sent went unanswered. Every phone call went to voicemail. It felt like she’d vanished completely — except for the pile of junk she’d left behind.
By the end of June, I’d had enough. I sent her one last message: if I didn’t hear from her by July 1st, I’d assume she’d abandoned her things and moved out for good. When the day came and went without a reply, I made good on my word.
I spent an entire weekend sorting through her belongings. The essentials — clothes, shoes, and old dishes — I donated to charity. A few nicer items, like jewelry and electronics, I boxed up and labeled in case she ever resurfaced. Then I asked my landlord to change the locks. Finally, for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe again.
But peace didn’t last long.
Three days later, there was a furious pounding on my door. I opened it to find Milly standing there, red-faced and shouting. She demanded to know why her key didn’t work, accusing me of locking her out and throwing away her things. She screamed that I’d donated her grandmother’s wedding dress and threatened to call the police.
I stayed calm. I told her I’d kept detailed records — text messages, photos of her abandoned room, and proof that she hadn’t paid rent or lived there for two months. I’d even spoken to the landlord before taking any action. When I showed her the documentation, she went silent. Her anger melted into frustration, then tears.
“This isn’t over,” she hissed as she stormed off down the hallway.
But it was.
Milly hadn’t lost her things because I was cruel or impatient. She lost them because she walked away and left me to deal with the mess. In the end, she didn’t get evicted — she evicted herself.
And as frustrating as the whole ordeal was, it gave me something unexpected: peace, stability, and a hard-earned reminder that sometimes losing a bad roommate is the best kind of freedom there is.