Living with a couple when you’re single is a delicate dance. At its best, it’s a fun, harmonious household. At its worst, you become the third wheel in your own home, paying rent for a front-row seat to someone else’s love story. For one reader, what started as a normal flatmate situation slowly devolved into her being a polite, rent-paying ghost in a living room that was no longer hers. Pushed to her breaking point, she decided it was time to stop being a background character and start the resistance.
When I agreed to move into a three-bedroom flat with my friend Ben and his girlfriend Tina, I figured it would be great. We all got along, and the rent was reasonable. I knew I was signing up for two flatmates. I didn’t realize I was actually signing up to be the quiet, unseen audience for a 24/7 one-act play called “Our Perfect Relationship,” staged exclusively in our shared living room.
The Honeymoon Annex
At first, it was fine. But as Ben and Tina got more comfortable, their “couple bubble” expanded until it filled every square inch of our common area. The living room ceased to be a shared space and became their personal love nest. They were constantly on the couch, cuddling under a mountain of their own blankets, watching their shows on the TV that was now permanently hooked up to Ben’s PlayStation.
Their clutter became decor. Tina’s yoga mat had a permanent home in front of the TV. Ben’s collection of mugs colonized the coffee table. Any attempt I made to use the space felt like an intrusion. I’d walk in to grab a book and they’d both look up as if I was a stranger who had wandered into their private home. I tried talking to them about it a few times, but I’d just get a breezy, “Oh, sorry! We’ll clear this up later,” and then they never would.
The Throne of Entitlement
I went away for a weekend to visit my parents. When I came back on Sunday night, I was greeted by a new addition to the living room. There, in the middle of the floor, taking up all the available walking space, was a monstrous, lumpy, gray beanbag chair big enough for two. It was their new “loveseat.”
They hadn’t asked me. They hadn’t even texted me. They had just unilaterally decided to install this monument to their relationship in our shared space. When I confronted them, they were genuinely shocked that I was upset. “We thought you’d love it!” Tina said, as Ben was already nestled in it. “It’s so comfy! We can all share!” It was clear from the way they were already entangled on it that it was their throne. I knew then that polite conversation was over. It was time for action.
Operation: Reclaim the Remote
I decided on a campaign of petty, non-verbal communication. The next morning, I woke up early. I quietly grabbed one end of the giant beanbag and dragged it down the hall. I wedged it directly in front of their closed bedroom door, creating a soft, lumpy barricade. Then I went and made coffee. The muffled grunts and confused frustration I heard a half-hour later were music to my ears.
That evening, I continued my offensive. I came home from work, walked straight into the living room, and took complete control. I turned on a six-part documentary series about mycelial networks—something I knew they would despise. I invited a friend over, and we sat on the couch, providing our own running commentary. When Ben and Tina emerged from their room, hoping to play video games, I just gave them a cheerful wave. “Hey, guys! We’re just on episode three, it’s fascinating!” They retreated.
The final touch? Every piece of their clutter I found—mugs, laptops, blankets, shoes—I didn’t put away. I created a neat “clutter pile” right in front of their bedroom door. A little daily reminder of everything they left behind.
It took two days. The beanbag barricade was the opening shot, but seeing their junk piled up and losing control of the TV is what finally got the message through. They sat me down and, for the first time, actually listened. They apologized for making me feel like a guest in my own home.
Things are much better now. We have a TV schedule and a rule that personal items go back to your own room at the end of the night. But my mom thinks my tactics were childish and passive-aggressive. She said I should have insisted on a ‘house meeting’ instead of starting a petty war. I think my ‘physical demonstration’ was the only language they were capable of understanding. AITA for how I reclaimed my living room?
This is a story of a territory dispute where the battle was fought not with loud arguments, but with a giant beanbag and a well-timed documentary. The narrator, pushed out of her own home by inches, finally decided to take back a mile. Her tactics were undeniably petty, but they were also a direct, physical reflection of the problem her flatmates were creating. She didn’t just tell them they were taking up too much space; she showed them.
What do you think, readers? Was this a brilliant campaign of petty justice that restored balance to the apartment, or should she have tried a more “mature” approach before resorting to beanbag warfare? Let us know below!
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