When my roommate vanished overnight to move in with her boyfriend, I figured she’d at least deal with the rent like a grown-up. But two months later, she turned up banging on my door, screaming about changed locks and missing belongings.
When I first rented this apartment, the landlord told me there was already one tenant living here and that they just needed one more roommate. Her name was Milly.
At first, I was relieved. Living alone seemed daunting, and having someone to split expenses with sounded perfect. I thought I’d found the best arrangement.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It’s not that Milly was a bad person. She could be sweet, friendly, and attentive in conversation. She’d ask about my day, remember small details I’d mentioned, and we’d sometimes have movie nights together on weekends. But the problem was—she never seemed to have her own household essentials.
I mean basics—like toilet paper, dish soap, laundry detergent. I’d buy them, and somehow they’d vanish twice as fast as expected.
She’d use my shampoo, my coffee… and whenever I’d hint at it, she’d smile and say, “Oh, I’ll grab some next time I’m out!”
But “next time” never came.
The rent was an even bigger headache. She was habitually late.
The very first month, she came to me three days after rent was due, looking flustered.
“Hey, Cynthia? I’m really sorry, but I’m short this month. Could you cover me? I swear I’ll pay you back next week.”
I covered her.
Next week came and went. No payment.
When I brought it up, she looked wounded. “I thought we were friends. I’m just going through a tough time right now.”
“We are friends,” I told her, “but you said you’d pay me back.”
“I promise I will next week,” she replied.
But that week never arrived.
On top of that, dishes stacked up like a precarious tower in the sink, the trash overflowed until the smell became unbearable, and the bathroom looked like a disaster zone.
I’d clean it all, and within days it was back to the same mess.
I couldn’t help but wonder how Milly had been living before I moved in. The landlord said she’d been there six months already. Did she just live in filth? Or had someone else been cleaning up for her before me?
It started to feel like she knew I couldn’t tolerate mess and was taking advantage of that—counting on me to keep the place livable.
I tried to be patient for months, even having a calm talk with her.
“Milly, we need to set up a system for chores,” I told her one night. “And the rent thing—it’s becoming an issue.”
She nodded eagerly. “You’re totally right! I’m sorry. I’ve just been so stressed with work. I’ll do better, I promise.”
But promises didn’t clean dishes or pay bills.
Then, once our lease ended and we went month-to-month, Milly simply disappeared.
No call. No explanation.
Her stuff was still scattered around the apartment, but she never came home.
A few days later, I heard from mutual friends that she was living with her boyfriend—staying in the basement of his mom’s house, playing house like a teenager.
Meanwhile, I was stuck covering her share of the rent, and she still hadn’t repaid what she already owed me.
When I finally texted her about the rent, her reply made my blood boil.
“Well, I’m not living there right now, so why should I pay rent?”
I stared at my phone in disbelief. Did she really think that’s how rent works?
I texted back, “So are you officially moving out then? I need to know what’s going on.”
No reply.
So I paid all of May’s rent alone.
Then June came, and I did it again.
I kept texting Milly—asking for clarity, asking for payment—but got nothing. She’d read the messages (I saw the blue check marks) but never replied.
The stress was eating me alive. I was taking extra shifts at my campus job just to cover her half on top of my own expenses, draining my savings because she’d run off to play house.
Then, out of nowhere, Milly’s mom texted me.
“Hi honey, I know Milly’s going through a rough patch. She just needs time to sort things out. She’ll be back soon, I promise.”
A “rough patch”? Really? She was living rent-free in someone else’s basement while I was breaking my back to pay for both of us.
I responded politely:
“I understand she’s having a hard time, but I can’t keep covering her rent indefinitely. If she’s not coming back, I need to know.”
Her mom never replied.
By July, I was done being patient. I’d given Milly every opportunity to make things right. Instead, she ghosted me completely, expecting me to maintain her half of the apartment like it was her personal storage unit.
I sent one last message:
“Milly, if you don’t respond by July 1st and sort out the rent, I’ll assume you’ve moved out permanently and act accordingly.”
July 1 came and went. Silence.
So I made my move.
I called three friends and explained everything. They were furious for me.
“Girl, you’ve been way too nice,” my friend Sarah said. “She’s basically stealing from you.”
We boxed up all of Milly’s belongings—clothes, books, random knick-knacks she’d left everywhere.
Anything generic or replaceable—worn clothes, old shoes, basic items—we donated. I set aside anything that seemed valuable or sentimental.
I called the landlord to explain. He was sympathetic.
“She’s off the lease now that it’s month-to-month,” he said. “If she’s not paying or living there, she has no legal claim.”
The next day, he changed the locks.
Goodbye, freeloading roommate.
I figured that was the end. But three days later, Milly was pounding on my door like the place was on fire.
“Why are the locks changed?” she shouted. “I LIVE HERE!”
I opened the door, calm as ever.
“Oh, hi Milly. Actually, you haven’t lived here in two months, and you haven’t paid a cent of rent.”
She looked shocked—apparently surprised that actions had consequences.
“I WAS COMING BACK!” she yelled. “It didn’t work out with Jake! His mom kicked me out!”
“Not my problem anymore,” I said. “You’re off the lease, and you ghosted me for months.”
Then came the tears—loud, theatrical sobbing like she was twelve and trying to get out of trouble.
“I have nowhere to go! I just need clean clothes and a shower! Please, Cynthia, I thought we were friends!”
I felt a tiny pang of guilt but shoved it down. Friends don’t stick friends with rent bills and disappear.
“What’s left of your things is in the closet,” I told her. “The rest I donated to charity.”
Her crying stopped on a dime.
“Donated to charity?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I gave it away. You abandoned it for two months. I’m not running a free storage unit.”
She barged past me, ran to what used to be her room, and came back looking furious.
“Where’s my grandmother’s wedding dress?” she demanded. “It was in a special box under my bed!”
My stomach dropped. “What special box? I saw an old cardboard box that looked like trash.”
“That WAS the box! You gave away my grandmother’s wedding dress!”
Honestly, how was I supposed to know an unmarked dusty box was a family heirloom? If it was so precious, maybe she shouldn’t have abandoned it.
But instead of seeing her own fault, she exploded.
“YOU MONSTER! YOU GAVE AWAY MY LIFE! I’M CALLING THE POLICE!”
I stayed calm.
“Go ahead. I documented everything, and your mom knew the situation. I warned you in May and June, and you ignored me. I’m not at fault here.”
She raged, cried, threatened lawsuits, called me names—but eventually realized she had no case, no keys, and no way back in.
“This isn’t over!” she shouted as she stormed away.
But it was. Completely.
If she learned anything, I hope it’s that ghosting your roommate doesn’t mean your stuff magically stays. And that I didn’t throw her out—she did that herself.
I just made it official.
Do you think I handled it the right way? What would you have done in my position?