When my roommate disappeared overnight to live with her boyfriend, I figured she’d at least handle rent like an adult. Two months later, she was pounding on my door, screaming about changed locks and missing belongings.

When I first moved in, the landlord said someone named Milly already lived there and needed a roommate. Perfect, I thought—company and split bills. Big mistake.

Milly was nice enough—sweet, chatty, even thoughtful—but she never bought anything. Toilet paper, soap, coffee—you name it, she used mine. And rent? Always late. Every month came with the same excuse: “I promise I’ll pay you next week.” That week never came.

She was messy, too. Dishes piled up, trash overflowed, and somehow I always ended up cleaning. I tried talking to her; she promised to do better. She didn’t.

Then, one day, she vanished. Most of her stuff stayed, but she didn’t. Friends said she’d moved in with her boyfriend, playing house in his mom’s basement. Meanwhile, I was covering all the rent.

When I asked her about it, she texted, “Well, I’m not living there right now, so why should I pay rent?” That was it. She ghosted completely—no replies, just blue checkmarks.

By July, I’d had enough. I warned her I’d consider her moved out if she didn’t respond by the 1st. Nothing. So, I packed her things, donated the junk, saved anything that looked valuable, and called the landlord. He changed the locks the next day.

Three days later, Milly showed up, furious. “Why are the locks changed? I LIVE HERE!”

I told her calmly, “You haven’t lived here in two months and haven’t paid rent.”

She broke down crying, begging to come in, claiming she had nowhere else to go. Then she found out I’d donated her stuff—including, apparently, her grandmother’s wedding dress.

She lost it. Screamed, cried, threatened to call the cops. I told her, “Do what you need to. I documented everything.”

Eventually, she stormed off shouting, “This isn’t over!”

But it was. She’d ghosted her way out of the apartment. I just made it official.