I’ve been dating my gf for just over a year.
I asked her to move in and we agreed on her not contributing to rent or other bills (I’m renting the place but she doesn’t want to feel like she’s a tenant and I’m a landlord).
Fine by me, I was just excited I’d wake up next to her every day.
Anyway, moving day comes, I get her boxes to the apartment, help her get settled, then head to the store to grab groceries and make a special dinner (you know, with candles and wine, to celebrate).
But when I walk back through the door, the wine LITERALLY slips out of my hands and I ask her to MOVE OUT immediately because every single one of her the wine LITERALLY slips out of my hands and I ask her to MOVE OUT immediately because every single one of her friends was already in my apartment — uninvited — throwing what looked like a low-budget music video shoot.
There were red plastic cups on the floor, someone had plugged in a disco light I definitely never owned, and my speaker was blasting bass-heavy club music loud enough that the walls were literally vibrating.
My favorite lamp? Knocked over. My couch? Covered in glitter.
Someone was using my toothbrush to brush their eyebrows.
And my dog — poor Max — was hiding under the table with a party hat tied to his head.
I just stood there. Frozen.
She came dancing out of the kitchen like nothing was wrong, holding a bottle of tequila. “You’re home!! Isn’t this place so much more fun now?”
I didn’t answer. I just looked around in horror.
“You told me you wanted this place to feel like ours,” she said with a pout.
“I thought that meant putting a plant on the windowsill,” I snapped. “Not turning it into a frat house.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
I took a breath, then calmly said it:
“Pack your things. You’re moving out.”
Gasps. Silence. Even the guy who had his feet on my coffee table froze with his beer halfway to his lips.
“Wait—are you serious right now?” she asked.
“As serious as you were when you let ten people trash my apartment while I was out buying you wine.”
She stared at me, stunned. I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue. I just picked up Max, stepped over a slice of pizza on the floor, and went to the balcony to breathe.