When my roommate Milly vanished overnight to play house with her boyfriend, I assumed she’d handle rent like an adult. Instead, I spent two exhausting months covering her share, chasing silent texts, and watching my savings bleed dry. She left behind a mess—emotionally and literally—and treated our place like a free storage unit.
Before her disappearance, Milly was sweet on the surface but never pulled her weight. She borrowed everything—shampoo, detergent, coffee—but bought nothing. Rent was always late. And when asked to contribute or clean up, she’d offer hollow apologies and broken promises.
Then, she ghosted completely. Not a single word.
I worked extra shifts, paid her bills, waited patiently, and even received vague excuses from her mother. Still no resolution. So when July arrived with no communication, I packed up Milly’s things, donated what looked replaceable, saved the sentimental, and changed the locks with the landlord’s blessing.
Days later, Milly returned—furious, sobbing, claiming she “lived” there and demanding access. When she found out her grandmother’s wedding dress had been donated (hidden in an unlabeled box she’d abandoned), she threatened to call the police and sue me.
I stayed calm. I had the receipts—texts, warnings, documentation—and reminded her: ghosting doesn’t grant you immunity. She left. Screaming. Swearing revenge.
But it was over.
She didn’t get evicted. She evicted herself.
