I met Brandon on a rainy Tuesday at the bookstore café where I worked part-time. He ordered a black coffee and asked about the novel I was reading. Three hours later, we were still talking. His charm was effortless, and I felt seen.
He was a freelance app developer; I taught full-time and worked part-time to cover rent. “Maybe you won’t need two jobs much longer,” he smiled, handing me his card. I didn’t see it then—the too-good-to-be-true promise.
A year later, we moved in together. He offered to cover rent and utilities since his income “fluctuated,” while I handled groceries and cooking. “I’m saving for our future,” he said. “A house fund.” I believed him.
For three years, I worked and supported our routine while Brandon coded, took meetings, and disappeared for “client work.” Then, one Friday, a letter arrived: Notice of Legal Action for Unpaid Rent — $8,437.63.
The lease was in my name. My forged signature. Brandon’s name wasn’t on anything. He’d stopped paying rent six months ago, pocketing the money.
That night, I checked his phone. He was planning a future—with someone else. Her name was Kelsey. He’d called me his “crazy ex-roommate” and laughed about how I didn’t know I was on the lease.
When he left for a “business trip,” I called the landlord. We changed the locks. I filled his prized sneaker collection with raw eggs. The stench would outlive our relationship.
When Brandon came back, he begged for his things. I said, “Pay the rent, and we’ll talk.” After panicking, he finally paid.
He collected everything—except the ruined sneakers.
Now, the apartment is mine. The heartbreak is real, but so is the freedom. He texted, “You ruined everything.”
I replied, “No, I saved myself. And that’s worth every broken egg.”
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