She was sweet at first—warm smiles, shared movie nights, and promises to split the bills. But beneath the charm, Milly was quietly draining me. My shampoo, my groceries, my patience. Rent came late, then not at all. Each month, I covered her share, believing friendship meant grace. She always had an excuse, always a promise to pay next week. That week never came.
Then one day, she vanished. No goodbye, no warning—just her belongings scattered like breadcrumbs across our apartment. Through mutual friends, I learned she’d moved in with her boyfriend, playing house in his mother’s basement. Meanwhile, I was left holding the lease, the bills, and the silence.
I reached out. She read my messages but never replied. Her mother texted, asking for understanding. Understanding? I was working double shifts to keep a roof over our heads. Milly had ghosted me, but expected me to keep her life on pause.
By July, I’d had enough. I gave her a deadline. No response. So I packed her things—donated the basics, saved the sentimental—and changed the locks. I wasn’t her storage unit. I was done being the doormat.
Three days later, she showed up, pounding on the door, demanding entry. She cried, screamed, begged. Said she had nowhere to go. Said we were friends. But friends don’t disappear when the rent’s due. Friends don’t leave you drowning while they chase romance.
She asked about her grandmother’s wedding dress. I hadn’t known it was in that dusty box. She called me a monster. But monsters don’t pay your rent. Monsters don’t clean your mess. Monsters don’t wait months for you to come home.
She left the story unfinished. I wrote the final chapter.
