When I moved in, the landlord said Milly was already living there and they just needed another roommate. I was happy—I didn’t want to live alone, and splitting bills sounded great.
Milly was sweet and friendly—asked about my day, remembered details, we watched movies. But she never brought anything basic—no toilet paper, dish soap, or shampoo. I’d buy them, and she’d use them up fast. She’d promise to buy replacements “next time,” but never did.
Then rent came. She was always late: first month, she was three days late and asked me to cover her. I did. Next week passed without a payment. She apologized, said she’d pay next week—but never did. Meanwhile, dishes piled up, trash overflowed, the bathroom was a mess. I cleaned; it went right back to chaos.
I tried talking to her. She agreed to make a chores system and pay rent, promising she’d improve—but nothing changed. Then, when the lease switched to month-to-month, she disappeared. No calls. Her stuff was still there. We learned she’d moved in with her boyfriend. Meanwhile, I covered both halves of the rent—for May and June.
I messaged her endlessly, but she just read my texts without replying. Then her mom texted, saying Milly needed time to sort things out—I was done being generous. I gave her until July 1 to respond. She didn’t.
So I packed her stuff: I kept anything valuable and donated the rest. I called the landlord, who agreed to change the locks since she was off the lease. I felt relieved—until three days later, Milly banged on the door, screaming that she “lives here.” I calmly explained she’d ghosted, didn’t pay, and was off the lease. She burst into tears, desperate for a shower and her clothes.
I told her her things were in a closet; the rest was donated. Then she realized her grandmother’s wedding dress was gone. I hadn’t known anything was special—it was in an unmarked box. She screamed, threatened me, called me names, but had no case. She had no keys, no lease, and nothing she could do.