My name is Tessa.
I’m twenty-five, live alone, and I rent a cozy apartment in a four-unit building on the east side of town.
It’s not fancy, but it’s mine. And it comes with one golden treasure in city living: a designated parking spot.
A little rectangular piece of asphalt heaven, marked clearly with a big white “1B” — my apartment number.
So when my neighbor across the hall, Kyle from 2B, started “accidentally” parking in my spot… I wasn’t thrilled.
The first time, I let it slide.
Maybe he was in a rush. Maybe he didn’t see the sign.
I parked on the street and left a sticky note on his windshield:
“Hey! I think you grabbed the wrong spot. No worries — just FYI it’s reserved for 1B :)”
The next morning, it was empty again. No big deal.
But a week later — boom. His car was there again.
No note. No apology. Just his beat-up silver Camry in my spot.
This time, I knocked on his door.
He opened it with a towel around his neck and a toothbrush in hand.
“Hey, uh… I think you’re in my spot again?” I said, keeping it light.
He blinked. “Oh shoot. My bad. I thought that was open parking. I’ll move it in a sec.”
He didn’t.
I had to go to work, so I parked in the next block, got rained on, and was late.
It kept happening.
Once a week. Then twice.
Every time, he’d act confused or pretend he thought I wasn’t home.
It wasn’t just annoying — it was invasive.
And then it got weirder.
One night, I came home from dinner and found his car halfway in my spot — and halfway on the curb.
Like he rushed out, saw me pulling up, and panicked.
That’s when I got suspicious.
Why would someone who had his own assigned spot keep “accidentally” taking mine?
Especially since his was literally right next to mine.
So I decided to do a little investigating.
The next day, I worked from home and kept an eye out.
Sure enough, Kyle left around 9 AM.
His car was gone — and mine was safely parked.
But by noon, a different car pulled into his spot.
A sleek black BMW. Tinted windows. Parked like it belonged.
Thirty minutes later, the driver — a woman — got out. Mid-40s, heels, business suit.
She walked straight into Kyle’s apartment with a key.
Not a knock. A key.
I blinked.
Girlfriend? Landlord? Sugar mama?
I didn’t know.
But now I knew one thing: Kyle was giving up his own spot for her.
And dumping his car in my spot to keep her happy.
That night, I confronted him.
“Hey, Kyle,” I said when he opened the door.
He smiled. “Oh, hey Tessa—”
“Nope. No more hey. I saw the woman in the BMW. I saw her park in your spot. So tell me — why is my space suddenly the overflow lot for your personal drama?”
His face turned bright red.
“She’s… it’s complicated,” he mumbled. “She stays over sometimes and doesn’t like walking far.”
I crossed my arms.
“So you just decided to inconvenience your neighbor — repeatedly — because your side piece didn’t want to wear flats?”
His jaw dropped.
“Don’t worry,” I added. “I’m not judging your love life. I’m judging your lack of respect.”
He tried to laugh it off.
I didn’t.
Instead, I did what any self-respecting woman with a lease and a stubborn streak would do.
I called the landlord.
Sent photos. Dates. Notes.
Then I bought a bright orange “Reserved Parking – 1B Only” sign from Amazon.
Had it drilled into the curb.
Next time he parked there?
Towed.
He banged on my door, furious.
“You called a tow truck on me?”
I sipped my tea. “Sure did. Want the invoice?”
He fumed. Said I was petty.
I smiled. “No, Kyle. I’m prepared. You just underestimated the wrong neighbor.”
Since then?
Not a single parking incident.
His lady friend parks down the street. In heels.
And me?
I come home every night to my empty, beautiful little parking spot — just as it should be.
Sometimes, you don’t need to be loud.
You just need to be smart, and a little unbothered.
