It started subtly. A missed delivery notification, then nothing. Maybe a mix-up, I thought. It happens. But then it happened again. And again. Not just small things, but packages I’d been eagerly awaiting. A new set of noise-canceling headphones, a limited-edition graphic novel, even a thoughtful gift for my best friend’s birthday. The frustration began to curdle into something colder, something like a violation. My doorstep, my space, was being targeted.
I called the delivery companies, filed claims, but it was always the same: “Delivered to your doorstep.” The financial hit was mounting, but it was the feeling of powerlessness that truly gnawed at me. I started peering through my peephole, jumping at every sound in the hallway. I developed a low thrum of paranoia. This wasn’t just about lost items anymore; it was about someone taking from me, right where I lived. Someone bold enough, or desperate enough, to repeatedly steal what wasn’t theirs. I spent a good chunk of my savings on a high-definition security camera, one that could capture every shadow, every movement. I was going to catch them. And when I did, I swore, they would regret it.
Man pinching his nose in frustration | Source: Pexels
The camera footage started rolling, silent sentinel. Days passed. Then, one Tuesday afternoon, the notification pinged my phone. Motion detected. My heart hammered. I opened the app, my finger trembling. There it was. The delivery driver, placing a box on my mat. Then, a few minutes later, movement. A figure. My breath hitched. I leaned closer to the screen, my eyes burning into the pixelated image. It wasn’t a shadowy stranger. It wasn’t some unknown menace from the street. It was the quiet lady from apartment 3B, the one who always gave me a polite, almost shy nod in the elevator. She picked up my package. She looked right at my door, then quickly, furtively, carried it away.
My stomach dropped. Not a porch pirate. A neighbor. Someone I shared a wall with, someone I’d exchanged pleasantries with. The betrayal was a physical blow. All those polite smiles, all those good mornings – a lie. My anger flared, hot and sharp, pushing past the initial shock. This wasn’t some random act; this was calculated, repeated, by someone who knew my schedule, knew my habits. I replayed the footage. Over and over. Each time, her face, her slight frame, her quick glance around the empty hallway before she snatched it, cemented the raw, ugly truth. It was undeniable. I felt a cold resolve settle over me. She will absolutely regret this.
I didn’t storm over to her door. I didn’t yell across the hallway. I waited. The next morning, I calmly walked to the building manager’s office. I showed them the footage. Their face, a mask of professional neutrality, slowly crumpled into dismay. “I… I can’t believe it,” they murmured, watching the quiet woman from 3B commit her crime. I stood there, arms crossed, feeling a grim satisfaction. “Believe it,” I said, my voice dangerously even. “And do something about it.” I provided screenshots, timestamps, and a list of all my missing packages. The manager promised action, swift and decisive.
Woman seated next to a lamp | Source: Pexels
Two days later, there was a commotion in the hallway. Not loud, but distinct. Voices. The manager’s firm tone, another voice, soft and pleading, undeniably hers. I didn’t open my door. I didn’t need to see it. I heard the scuff of things being moved, the clatter of what sounded like boxes. By that evening, her apartment door stood ajar, empty. The manager later confirmed it: she was evicted, immediately. My packages, of course, were never recovered. But I had my justice. I had exposed her. I had ensured she faced consequences. She certainly regrets it now, I thought, a bitter triumph mixing with a lingering unease. No one takes from me and gets away with it.
The building felt quieter without her. A strange, heavy silence. I didn’t see her shy nod in the elevator, didn’t hear the faint sounds of her television through the wall. Sometimes, a tiny flicker of doubt would cross my mind. What if there was a reason? But I quickly pushed it away. There was no excuse for stealing. None. And yet, the silence. It lingered.
A few weeks later, a letter arrived for her, mistakenly delivered to my mailbox because the address was similar. It was from the city’s social services department. Curiosity, or something darker, twisted inside me. I opened it. It wasn’t just a simple eviction. The letter detailed an assistance application, denied, mentioning a lack of fixed address. It spoke of a recent loss, a bereavement for her only son. It detailed her struggle with a sudden, devastating loss of her pension, an administrative error that left her with nothing. It painted a picture of a woman utterly alone, completely destitute, and rapidly losing her grip. She hadn’t been stealing for profit; she was stealing to survive. Food, toiletries, a cheap radio for company, things she hoped to resell for a few dollars. My packages. My stolen packages. And my righteous anger, my desire to “make her regret it,” had stripped her of the last shred of dignity and shelter she had.
Bearded man using a light pen on a tablet | Source: Pexels
My chest tightened, a cold, crushing weight. I traced the words on the page. Only a week after her eviction, the letter stated, she was found. In a local park. Alone. She had succumbed to exposure. Not an intentional act, not suicide, just… simply fading away from the cold, the hunger, the utter despair. My “justice” hadn’t just made her regret it. My justice had killed her. I stand here now, in my quiet apartment, surrounded by the things I ordered, the things I own. And all I can hear is the echoing silence of apartment 3B, a silence that screams of a life I unknowingly snuffed out. And for the first time, I understand what true regret feels like. And it’s all mine.
