They say you can’t choose family, but that’s not the only thing you can’t choose because none of us would choose to live together with some random person, their boyfriend, and unacceptable dishes and laundry habits.

In this lovely living situation, your rent covers not only your own misery but also the silent audition of every stray significant other in your area. Apartment boundaries blur, lease terms become suggestions, and suddenly, what you thought was a two-bedroom arrangement drifts toward being a three-person social experiment in patience and accidental multi-partner relationship. The unspoken contract of personal space becomes collateral damage under the invasion of relationship logistics, and a home morphs into a communal stage where someone’s partner is always just helping themselves to your Wi-Fi and your cheese.

Across shared apartments everywhere, countless renters have watched in disbelief as a roommate’s plus-one upgrades themselves from romantic visitor to unofficial resident. There is the casual occupation of couches and kitchens, the casual theft of toiletries and leftovers, and the uncanny transformation of your apartment into a sitcom set where private moments are a distant memory. It always follows the same plot: at first, it is a handful of overnights, then a shift in the energy, then a permanent new presence occupying your best chair and every available ounce of patience. The soundtrack is relentless, a parade of awkward bathroom lines and pet names that could drive a monk to madness. 

Raise a concern and you are painted as the anti-romance landlord, the tyrant of someone else’s love story, single-handedly suffocating true affection for the crime of wanting to eat your own leftovers in peace.