I always knew she was a little… flighty. We’d been roommates for a year, and there were always little things. Rent a day late, a utility bill forgotten, a “I’ll get you back for groceries, promise!” that never materialized. But I overlooked it. We were friends. We had fun. I covered for her, thinking she just needed a little more time to get it together. We all do, sometimes, right?
Then he entered the picture. A new boyfriend. He seemed charming at first, but quickly morphed into this… controlling presence. She started spending more and more time at his place. Days turned into nights. Nights turned into full weeks. Our apartment became a storage unit for her clothes and an occasional pit stop. The texts became shorter, the excuses more elaborate. “My phone died,” “His place is closer to work,” “I’m just so tired.”
The rent for the new month loomed. I sent a gentle reminder. No response. Another reminder, a little firmer. “Hey, just making sure you saw the rent reminder! It’s due in three days.” Crickets. Two days later, I got a terse message: “Can’t make it this month. Ask my mom?” ASK HER MOM? My stomach dropped. I knew her mom wasn’t a bank. I knew this meant I was on the hook for everything.
An envelope | Source: Pexels
Panic started to set in. I called. I texted. I left voicemails. Nothing. It wasn’t just the rent anymore; it was utilities, internet, her share of the food she’d left in the fridge to rot. The apartment felt like a tomb, filled with her silent judgment in the form of abandoned belongings. Her shoes by the door. Her favorite mug on the counter. The half-finished book on her nightstand. Every item was a taunt. Every silence, a scream.
A week passed. Then two. She was completely gone. GHOSTED. My calls went straight to voicemail. My texts went unread. My landlord was breathing down my neck. I was living on ramen and instant coffee, watching my savings dwindle to cover her portion of rent. The anger festered, a hot, toxic knot in my chest. How could someone just… disappear and leave a friend to deal with the fallout? How could she be so incredibly selfish?
I tried everything. Messaged mutual friends – they hadn’t heard from her either. Called her family – they said she’d moved out and wasn’t talking to them much. Moved out? But where? And why didn’t she tell me? It became clear. She hadn’t moved out; she’d run out. And I was left holding the bag, drowning in debt and resentment.
I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t afford this place alone, not with her stuff mocking me from every corner. I had to take control. I decided. I would get a new roommate. But first, her room. It needed to be empty. This wasn’t about revenge, not exactly. It was about survival. It was about reclaiming my life, my financial stability. It was about taking back what was mine.
A handwritten letter | Source: Pexels
I started with her closet. Her clothes, expensive brands I could never afford, still hanging neatly. I started pulling them down, one by one, folding them with a cold, almost surgical precision. Each item I touched ignited a fresh spark of fury. She could afford these clothes, but not her share of rent? I packed them into boxes, telling myself I’d store them for her, but knowing deep down, a part of me hoped I’d never have to see them again. Maybe I’d give them to charity. Maybe I’d just… forget them.
Then I moved to her dresser. Her perfume bottles, her trinkets, her jewelry box. Everything was so perfectly placed, as if she intended to be back any moment. It was infuriating. I opened the top drawer, clearing out scarves and socks. Underneath a pile of neatly folded lingerie, my fingers brushed against something hard. Not fabric. Not a box. It was a small, plain envelope. No name. No address. Just a fold.
My heart hammered against my ribs. What is this? Is it a letter to me? An apology? I pulled it out, my hands trembling with a mixture of hope and dread. Hope for an explanation, dread for another excuse. I opened it.
It wasn’t a letter. It was a photograph. A blurry, slightly off-center ultrasound image. My breath caught in my throat. This couldn’t be. This was…
Then, tucked beneath the photo, a small, folded piece of paper. Not a formal letter, but a hastily scrawled note, written on what looked like a ripped page from a diary. The handwriting was hers, shaky and smeared in places, as if she’d been crying.
“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t tell you. He said if I kept it, he’d kill me. He said he’d find me, find it, if I stayed. I had to go. I had to disappear. Please, please forgive me for everything. This isn’t about being entitled, it’s about being terrified. I’m not coming back. I can’t.“
A young man smiling | Source: Pexels
The paper slipped from my numb fingers. The ultrasound image fell on top of it. I stared at them, my vision blurring, the anger draining from me, replaced by a cold, sickening wave of HORROR. She wasn’t entitled. She wasn’t selfish. SHE WAS RUNNING FOR HER LIFE. And all this time, I had been consumed by rage over money, while she was out there, alone, pregnant, and in grave danger. Oh my god. Every harsh word I’d thought, every furious text I’d sent, every plan I’d made to “punish” her… it all crashed down on me. I hadn’t been abandoned; I’d been left behind by someone making an impossible choice. My entitled roommate didn’t ditch me for her boyfriend. She vanished to save herself, and her baby, from him.
