Roommate Horror Stories: My Roommate Kept Stealing My Food. My Revenge Was Ice-Cold

It started with little things, subtle enough to make me question my own memory. Half a slice of pizza vanished from the fridge, and a spoonful was scooped out of my yogurt tub. At first, I brushed it off, convincing myself I’d eaten them absentmindedly. But doubt crept in when I opened a sealed container of my leftover lasagna, the plastic wrap still taut, and found a distinct fork mark and a bite missing from the edge. Someone was treating my food like a buffet at a tasting event.

I confronted my roommate, Jess, over breakfast one morning. The kitchen smelled of burnt toast, her usual culinary contribution. “Have you been eating my food?” I asked, pointing to the pilfered lasagna. She shrugged, her eyes darting to her coffee mug. “Oh, I just wanted to see if I’d like it before I bought my own,” she said, as if my fridge were a grocery store sample counter. I blinked, stunned. This wasn’t Costco, and I wasn’t handing out free bites.

Frustrated, I began labelling everything with my name in bold Sharpie, adding threatening notes like, “Eat this and I will find you” or “This is not a communal snack.” The notes, taped aggressively to Tupperware, did nothing. Jess’s nibbling continued unabated. One evening, I caught her red-handed, her spoon hovering over a fresh container of my homemade vegetable soup, the steam still rising from the pot I’d laboured over for hours. She froze, then grinned sheepishly. “You make such good food, I couldn’t help it!” she said, as if her flattery excused the theft. The audacity made my blood boil.

I tried to escalate my defences, searching the internet on how to deal with a roommate who steals food or even protecting food in a shared fridge, until I landed on a doable solution. I bought a mini fridge online, a sleek black model that hummed softly when I plugged it in. I hauled it into my bedroom, rearranging my desk to make space, and stocked it with my groceries. The first night, I slept better knowing my food was safe behind a locked door. When Jess noticed, she cornered me in the hallway, her brow furrowed. “Why’d you get a fridge in your room?” she asked, her voice tinged with offence. I leaned in, my tone icy. “Because I don’t want my meals taste-tested like I’m a contestant on MasterChef.” She laughed, a nervous chuckle, but I didn’t crack a smile. My patience was gone.

The fridge wars, as I called them, cooled after that. Jess stopped raiding my food, perhaps wary I’d resort to drastic measures, like booby-trapping a container with hot sauce or worse. I never did, but the threat hung in the air. Our apartment regained a fragile peace, though I still checked my mini fridge daily, ensuring my culinary creations remained untouched, safe from Jess’s wandering spoon.