The doorbell shrieked, slicing through the quiet afternoon. I froze, a plate half-dried in my hand. It couldn’t be. It had been weeks since I’d changed the locks, since I’d finally, blessedly, felt like this apartment was mine again, free from the constant anxiety of her presence. But there she was, through the peephole. Milly. My heart slammed against my ribs. Her face was gaunt, eyes wide and a little wild, hair a tangled mess around her shoulders. She looked… smaller. Frailer than I remembered from our final, bitter texts. She just shows up like this? After everything?
I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and opened the door a crack. “What do you want?” My voice was colder than I intended.
“My stuff!” she shrieked, pushing against the door, trying to force her way in. “Let me in! You can’t just take my things!”
“I gave you until July 1st,” I said, pushing back, bracing the door with my foot. “I text you. I called you. You said, ‘I’M NOT STAYING THERE, SO WHY SHOULD I PAY RENT?’ Remember that, Milly? Remember how I had to cover your half? For months? Because you just disappeared?” The words spilled out, years of resentment and frustration bubbling to the surface. “You left your garbage everywhere, never cleaned, never bought toilet paper! I had to live with your mess, pay your bills, and then I had to pay your rent too, all while you were off living with your new boyfriend!”
She scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “That’s not fair! You can’t just steal my belongings!” Her voice cracked, a tremor running through it that I dismissed as manipulative. She always knew how to play the victim.
“I packed your things. Every single box is labeled. I donated the toiletries and the expired food you left, yes. But anything valuable, it’s all here. Ready for you to pick up, like I told you.” I gestured vaguely towards the corner of the living room, where the carefully stacked boxes of her remaining life sat. “But you’re not coming in. Not until you pay me what you owe.”
Her eyes darted past me, scanning the apartment. I saw a flicker of something in them, a desperate yearning, before it was replaced by a familiar anger. “I don’t have money! He… he’s got it all right now. Just let me get my things. Please.” Her voice dropped to a whisper on that last word, almost a plea. Still playing games.
“No,” I said, firmly. “Not until I get what I’m owed. You left me in a terrible financial hole, Milly. A really, really bad one. I almost couldn’t pay my own rent.”
She stared at me, and I saw her chest rise and fall rapidly. A deep, racking cough tore through her, doubling her over. It sounded wet, painful. I frowned. Is she sick? Then she straightened up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. That’s when I saw it. The sleeve of her oversized sweater, riding up just a fraction.
Beneath it, a dark, angry bruise bloomed along her forearm, snaking its way up towards her elbow. It wasn’t a fresh bruise, but the faded purples and greens told a story of impact, of force. My stomach dropped. I looked at her face again. The gauntness wasn’t just stress. The wildness in her eyes wasn’t just anger. It was… fear.
“I need my stuff,” she said again, her voice thin, almost translucent. “I really need it.” Her eyes were no longer angry, but pleading, tearful. She wasn’t just wanting her things back. She was fleeing.
My gaze fell to her hand, clutching her midsection, almost protectively. And then I noticed the slight, almost imperceptible swelling beneath her cheap, worn coat. A bump. A baby bump. She was pregnant.
My breath caught in my throat. Oh my God. The “boyfriend” who had all her money. The disappearing act. The refusal to pay rent, saying she wasn’t staying there. Her desperate need for her things now, not just to move, but to… escape. My mind raced, putting together the pieces, a horrifying mosaic forming. He wasn’t her boyfriend. He was her abuser. And she was carrying his child.
Suddenly, the image of my carefully packed boxes of her belongings in the corner of my living room felt like a monument to my own self-righteousness. Her only possessions. Her only hope. And I had held them hostage. My stomach twisted. I had seen her as a bad roommate, a leech, a selfish burden. But she had been drowning. And I, unknowingly, had just held her head under the water.
She looked at me, a single tear tracing a path down her pale cheek. “Please,” she whispered, a broken sound. “I have nowhere else to go. He kicked me out.”
And in that moment, the anger, the frustration, the years of feeling used, all of it evaporated, replaced by a cold, searing wave of GUILT SO PROFOUND IT FELT LIKE A PHYSICAL BLOW. I had been so focused on what I was owed, what she had taken from me. I hadn’t once considered what had been taken from her. And now, I had taken the last thing she had.
