I had just gotten back from a week-long vacation, ready to unwind before jumping back into my usual routine. But the second I stepped into the apartment, I knew something was off. The air felt humid, and there was a weird, musty smell hanging in the air. Then I looked down—and stopped in my tracks. The carpet was soaked. Not just a little damp, like someone spilled a drink—no, it squished under my shoes like a sponge.
Confused, I turned to my roommates, who were all casually lounging on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, munching on snacks as if everything was completely normal. I asked them what had happened, and they just kind of shrugged. One of them, without even turning his head, said, “Oh yeah, the water heater exploded a few days ago. It flooded the place, mostly your room though.”
Apparently, it had happened three days earlier. THREE. And rather than, I don’t know, calling me, alerting maintenance, or even just trying to clean up the mess, they chose to do nothing. My room, which sits right next to the water heater closet, had taken the brunt of it—soaked clothes, ruined books, warped furniture. And they were just…chilling.
It was like I walked into a weird alternate universe where water damage didn’t matter. No apology, no concern—just, “Yeah, sucks, man.” To this day, I still don’t know if they were just lazy or if they genuinely thought pretending it didn’t happen would make it go away. Spoiler: it didn’t.
