I share an apartment with a friend from college, and lately his cousin has been staying with us “just for a few days.” It’s been three weeks.
He leaves dishes in the sink, blasts music at night, and hogs the bathroom every morning.
When I talked to my roommate, he just shrugged and said, “Come on, man, he’s going through a rough patch. Be cool.”

I tried to be cool. I really did. I even offered the cousin, whose name was Troy, a beer one night to break the ice. He grabbed it, didn’t say thanks, and then used my laptop charger without asking. The next morning, I stepped on his sock in the kitchen. It was wet. I don’t know how. But it was wet.

I texted my roommate while I was at work. I kept it calm and straightforward. “Hey, we need to talk tonight. It’s about Troy. I can’t keep living like this.”

He didn’t reply all day. When I got home, he was already in his room with headphones on, pretending not to hear me come in. Troy was lying on the couch, eating cereal straight from the box. I walked past him, went to the bathroom, and found the last of my shampoo gone. Again.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Troy was on the phone in the living room until 2 a.m., laughing loudly and yelling into his phone like it was a megaphone. I grabbed my pillow, stormed into the living room, and said, “Dude. People are trying to sleep.”

He looked up like I’d just interrupted some sacred ritual. “Relax, man,” he said, waving me off. “It’s Friday night.”

“It’s Tuesday,” I snapped.

“Same difference,” he muttered.

I went back to my room fuming. My roommate was still avoiding the issue, and I realized I was on my own. So I started locking up my stuff. My chargers, my speakers, even my cereal went into a drawer in my room. I even took my coffee mug into the office.

Then came the day that broke me. I had a job interview that morning. It was big. A marketing assistant position at a firm downtown. My one suit was freshly pressed, I’d prepped all week, and I even skipped dinner the night before to avoid bloating.

I woke up early, feeling good. But the bathroom door was locked. Again. I knocked once. Then twice. “Troy?”

“Just a sec!” he called out. Ten minutes passed. I knocked again. “Seriously, I have to go.”

“Chill, bro,” he said from behind the door. “Almost done.”

Almost done turned into twenty more minutes. When he finally came out, shirtless, smelling like cheap cologne and body spray, I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. I rushed in, shaved in a panic, and by the time I caught the bus, I was already sweating through my shirt.

I didn’t get the job. The recruiter said I came across “a bit flustered” and “unprepared.” I nodded, thanked her, and walked home like someone had stolen my lungs.

That night, I didn’t even go inside. I sat on the building steps and just stared at the sky for a long time. I didn’t want to go back up. Not while Troy was still up there, existing like a permanent glitch in my life.

Then, something shifted. A neighbor named Maria—mid-thirties, kind eyes, lived down the hall—walked by and stopped. “You good?” she asked.

I looked up. “Yeah. Just… roommate problems.”

She gave a small smile. “Your place has been sounding like a nightclub.”

I laughed a little. “Tell me about it.”

She sat next to me. “You know, when I was your age, I had a roommate whose brother moved in ‘for a weekend.’ He ended up staying five months. Lost my boyfriend, failed a class, and nearly quit school because I couldn’t focus. But I didn’t kick him out because I didn’t want to be rude.”

I looked at her. “So what happened?”

“One day I snapped,” she said, grinning. “Put all his stuff in trash bags, left them outside the door, and told him the locks were changing.”

I blinked. “That worked?”

“Oh, he was mad. Called me every name in the book. But my grades went up, and I met my future husband two weeks later.”

I smiled. It was the first time I felt okay all week.

The next day, I left a note for my roommate. “We need to talk. Tonight. No avoiding.”

He sighed when he got home and saw me sitting on the couch.

“Look,” I started, “I’ve been patient. But Troy’s been here three weeks. He’s loud, messy, and rude. He’s using my stuff and disrupting my life.”

My roommate rubbed his neck. “I know, man. I just… he’s family. My aunt asked me to look out for him. He’s going through stuff.”

“So am I,” I said. “I missed a job opportunity because of him. I’m losing sleep. I don’t even feel comfortable in my own home.”

There was a long silence. He looked down. “I’ll talk to him,” he mumbled.

“You’ve been saying that for two weeks,” I said. “I’m serious. If he’s not out by Sunday, I’m leaving.”

He looked surprised. Maybe even hurt. But I meant it.

That night, I heard them talking in the kitchen. Troy’s voice rose, full of sarcasm and defiance. “What, you choosing your roommate over family now?”

I didn’t hear the reply, but I saw Troy the next morning, packing up his duffel bag. He didn’t look at me. Just muttered, “Whatever,” and walked out.

The apartment felt still for the first time in weeks.

My roommate didn’t talk to me much for a couple of days. Then, one night, he knocked on my door. “Hey,” he said, “you were right. I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

A week later, the apartment started to feel like home again. I got my mornings back. My cereal stayed where I left it. And silence became a kind of music I hadn’t realized I missed.

Then, out of nowhere, something strange happened.

I got an email from the recruiter at the marketing firm. She said the guy they hired didn’t work out. She asked if I was still available.

Two weeks later, I was sitting at a new desk, sipping office coffee, and feeling like my life had finally shifted forward.

And Troy? I saw him once after that. I was at a food truck downtown during lunch, and he was in line ahead of me. He looked rough—same hoodie, eyes tired. He turned and saw me.

For a second, I thought he might say something, maybe even apologize. But he just nodded.

I nodded back.

He walked away with a burger, and that was that.

But here’s the twist no one saw coming.

A few months into my new job, my boss introduced a new hire. “This is Kalila,” she said. “She’s our new intern. Super sharp. Came highly recommended.”

Kalila and I clicked fast. We had the same music taste, both loved bad horror movies, and hated small talk. A few coffee breaks turned into lunches. Then into late-night texts. Then a first date.

On our fourth date, over tacos, I mentioned my old apartment drama. She laughed. “Wait, was his name Troy? My cousin stayed with a friend last spring and basically squatted on his couch until he got kicked out.”

I choked on my soda. “That was your cousin?”

She blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’re that roommate? Oh my God, my mom lectured him for a week after that. Said he got what he deserved.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. “Small world.”

She grinned. “Karma’s got a funny way of working out, huh?”

We’ve been together ever since. And sometimes, when we’re lying on the couch, she still jokes, “Thank Troy for this.”

And honestly? I do.

Because if I hadn’t set that boundary, if I’d just kept my mouth shut and let my peace dissolve, I would’ve missed out on the job, the growth, and Kalila.

Sometimes you have to say no. Sometimes you have to stand up, even if it feels awkward or risky. The people who matter will respect it. The rest will walk away—and they’re supposed to.

The lesson? Don’t be afraid to reclaim your space. Your peace isn’t up for negotiation. Set the boundary. Speak the truth. Life will reward you in ways you didn’t see coming.

And if this story hit close to home—share it. Like it. Tell someone who needs to hear it. Because we’ve all had a “Troy” in our lives.

And we all deserve to get our home—and our peace—back.