When I moved in, I thought having a roommate named Milly would make life easier.

She was nice enough, but she never bought essentials, borrowed my things without asking,

and was always late on rent. Month after month, she’d promise to pay me back “next week,”

and it never happened.Then, one day, she just vanished —

most of her stuff still scattered around the apartment — to live with her boyfriend in his mom’s basement.

She ignored my texts about rent, even telling me she shouldn’t pay because she “wasn’t living there.”

For two months, I paid her share, drained my savings, and got nothing but silence.Finally,

I told her if she didn’t respond

by July 1st, I’d assume she’d moved out. When the day came with no word,

I packed up her belongings. The basics went to charity, valuables I set aside.

My landlord changed the locks. Problem solved — or so I thought.

Three days later, Milly pounded on my door, furious about the locks and claiming I’d given away her grandmother’s wedding dress.

She raged, cried, threatened to call the police,

but I’d documented everything.

She’d abandoned the place — and her things — for two months.

She left shouting, “This isn’t over!” But it was. She didn’t lose her stuff because I threw her out.

She lost it because she threw herself out.