I share an apartment with two other girls. We’re all busy, but it was always me who cleaned our bathroom. Instead of confronting them, I got petty. The next day, I was horrified when I saw my roommate’s face. She was covered in tiny red bumps, like a rash had exploded overnight across her cheeks and chin. Her eyes were puffy, and she looked like she hadn’t slept at all.

At first, I thought it was something she ate. But when she looked at me, she said, “Do you think it could be from the bathroom?” That’s when my stomach dropped.

Let me backtrack a bit. I moved into this place about eight months ago with Livia and Sara. We weren’t best friends or anything. Livia was a friend of a friend, and Sara found the place on a roommate Facebook group. Everyone seemed nice enough, and for the first few weeks, things were okay. We split groceries, signed a little whiteboard calendar for chores, and even had a wine night once.

But then the novelty wore off. I noticed I was always the one taking the trash out. Always wiping down the kitchen counters. Always scrubbing that tiny, humid bathroom we all shared. The worst part? No one even said thanks. They just used it, left their hair all over the sink, wet towels on the floor, and then acted like it magically reset overnight.

I tried subtle hints. I wrote “PLEASE clean after yourself :)” on the bathroom mirror in dry-erase marker. That was wiped off by the end of the day.

I once even left the trash bag sitting by the door, thinking one of them would take it out on their way to work. It stayed there for two days.

So yeah, I got tired of being the unpaid maid. And instead of having a real conversation, I decided to get a little… petty.

I stopped cleaning. Completely. No toilet scrubbing. No wiping moldy corners of the shower. No more restocking toilet paper. I figured they’d notice. They’d feel gross enough to step up.

Except… they didn’t.

Two weeks went by, and it got disgusting. The sink had toothpaste globs hardened like concrete. The floor was slick. Something blackish was growing in the corners of the tub.

And then I took it one step further. I remembered a trick my mom once told me when she caught mold growing in the shower at home. She said vinegar would kill it — but that if you left it too long without rinsing, it could actually irritate your skin. Especially sensitive skin.

So I sprayed it all over the tub. Not maliciously, I swear. I told myself it was a passive-aggressive reminder. But I didn’t rinse it. I left it.

That night, I showered quickly and wore flip-flops. The next morning, Sara came out of the bathroom scratching her legs, saying the tub felt “weird.” But I just nodded and kept eating my cereal.

It was the following morning that I saw Livia’s face and felt sick with guilt.

She sat at the kitchen table with a hoodie pulled tight around her. Her face was red, swollen, and covered in bumps. She kept dabbing at it with a cold towel. “I think I had a reaction,” she said. “I don’t know from what. I washed my face like usual.”

I froze. I hadn’t meant for this to happen.

Livia was supposed to be the clean freak. She always had the latest skincare products, drank cucumber water, and lit candles when she studied. I guess I assumed she’d never let the bathroom get that bad. I was wrong.

I didn’t say anything at first. I just watched as she packed a small bag and said she was going to stay at her boyfriend’s for a few days to “let her skin breathe.”

Sara and I were left alone for the weekend. And that’s when I finally cracked.

We were both in the kitchen, scrolling on our phones in silence, and I just said it: “Have you noticed how nasty the bathroom is?”

Sara looked up. “Yeah, I guess it’s gotten kinda gross.”

“Kinda?” I said, laughing awkwardly. “It’s disgusting. I stopped cleaning it two weeks ago just to see what would happen.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Wait, you were the one cleaning it all this time?”

I nodded. “Pretty much.”

Sara blinked, like it had never occurred to her. “I thought we were all doing it… like, randomly.”

I nearly laughed again. “Randomly? Have you ever scrubbed the toilet?”

She looked away, suddenly sheepish. “No, but I just thought… I don’t know. I didn’t think you were doing it every time.”

That’s when it hit me. Maybe it wasn’t malice. Maybe it was just total obliviousness.

We both sat there in silence for a while, and then Sara got up and said, “Wanna clean it together? Like… now?”

We spent two hours scrubbing that place top to bottom. We played music, cracked jokes about how we should wear hazmat suits, and at one point found an old razor that definitely didn’t belong to any of us.

It was gross, but also kind of… bonding.

By the time we finished, the place sparkled. I felt lighter. Cleaner, in every sense.

On Sunday evening, Livia came back. Her skin was still a little red, but it had improved. When she saw the bathroom, she blinked and said, “Whoa. Did someone hire a cleaner?”

Sara and I looked at each other.

“No,” I said, calmly. “We just decided to finally clean the place. You know, since we all live here.”

Livia laughed, like I’d told a joke. But then she paused and looked at us both. “Wait… were you two mad at me?”

That was the moment I could’ve stayed petty. I could’ve said yes. Could’ve told her about the vinegar. But I didn’t.

“I just felt taken for granted,” I said instead. “I’ve been cleaning that bathroom for months. It got to me. That’s all.”

She looked embarrassed. “I honestly had no idea. I thought we were… like, all pitching in without saying anything.”

That same assumption again.

We ended up having one of the most honest conversations we’d had since moving in. We talked about how things had slowly slipped. How everyone thought someone else was doing it. How nobody wanted to be the “nag.”

After that weekend, we made a new cleaning schedule — a real one this time. With names. Dates. Even a group chat dedicated to reminders.

It sounds silly, but the apartment felt different after that. Lighter. More respectful.

And the twist?

A couple weeks later, Livia came home with a small gift bag. She handed it to me and said, “I’ve been thinking about how bad I must’ve made you feel. I’m sorry.”

Inside was a tiny skincare kit and a handwritten note that said: You were right to feel upset. Thanks for not blowing up and still giving us a chance to do better.

It wasn’t the gift that got me. It was the fact that she acknowledged it. That she cared enough to make it right.

Looking back, I realize I learned something important: people aren’t always inconsiderate out of malice. Sometimes, they just don’t notice what they’re not paying attention to — until someone gently (or not-so-gently) makes them see it.

Sure, I could’ve handled it better from the start. I could’ve had a mature conversation instead of going full vinegar vigilante. But I also learned that being honest, even after a misstep, opens the door for understanding.

And maybe, just maybe, the people around you will surprise you with how much they’re willing to grow — if you give them a chance.

So if you’re stuck being the one who “always does it,” speak up. Kindly. Honestly. You might just change your entire living situation with one real conversation.

And if you are the person who’s never cleaned the bathroom… maybe go check the sink. Right now.

If this story made you nod, smile, or cringe in recognition — hit the like button and share it with someone who needs a reminder that a little respect (and soap) goes a long way.