Roommate Horror Stories: My Roommate Kept Annoying Sticky Notes All Over The Apartment Till I Replied With Mine

My first apartment after college, a cozy Portland spot with creaky floors and a park view, felt like a dream. The sticky note on the fridge didn’t faze me at first: “Some people need to clean up after themselves :)” I’d left a spoon in the sink after a late bakery shift, so I washed it, assuming my roommate, Hannah, was just tidy. But the notes multiplied like weeds. The bathroom mirror read, “Would be nice if people wiped this down after brushing their teeth.” The microwave warned, “Let’s keep things from exploding in here!” Unsigned, they were no mystery; Hannah was my only roommate, her passive-aggressive smiley faces grating on my nerves.

Hannah, a quiet graphic designer I’d met through a friend, loved herbal tea and cat memes, seeming harmless. Over coffee one morning, the kitchen smelling of her chamomile brew, I tried talking. “Hey, are the notes about something bothering you?” I asked. She stirred her mug, eyes down. “No, just keeping things fair, I get anxious when stuff’s messy,” she said. I nodded, though her refusal to talk directly stung, especially since I cooked us pasta half the time, my garlic bread never earning a complaint.

The notes grew weirder. One on my bedroom door read, “Let’s keep noise levels down after 10 p.m., some of us have early mornings!” I’d been at my mom’s for two nights, helping post-surgery, so that felt personal. I left a note back: “Happy to chat, missed you the last few days!” No reply. After a cold-induced sneeze, another appeared: “Please cover your mouth when sneezing, germs are real!” I tried talking again, but Hannah dodged me, her notes sharper, her presence scarce. My patience snapped. I spent evenings searching for new apartments, the glow of my laptop my only company. I found a new place, a quiet studio with no sticky notes in sight, and told the landlord I was done.

I packed up, leaving behind Hannah’s notes and her silent grudges. Before I left, I taped one final note to the fridge: “Good luck keeping things ‘fair’ alone!” She could jot her complaints to an empty room now. My new apartment was a haven, its floors creak-free, the air untainted by passive-aggressive tension. I learned to value direct communication, vowing never to live with someone who speaks in smiley-faced barbs.