The Stranger Who Stole My Parking Spot—And My Life
The fluorescent lights at work had been burning my eyes for ten straight hours when I finally dragged myself out of the office that Tuesday evening. My shoulders ached, my head throbbed, and all I wanted was to collapse on the couch next to my wife, Amy.
Maybe she made lasagna tonight, I thought. The one with extra cheese—the kind that made even the worst days feel a little better.
I always got home around 6:30 p.m. Our apartment complex had assigned parking, and mine was Spot #27—right in front of our building. After months of arguing with Mr. Smiths, the grumpy old man next door, I’d earned that spot.
So when I pulled in and saw a sleek black Camry parked there like it owned the place, my blood boiled.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, gripping my keys so hard they dug into my palm.
I stormed toward the car, ready to give the driver a piece of my mind—when something caught my eye.
A white note, folded neatly under the windshield wiper.
I snatched it and unfolded it. The handwriting was precise, almost elegant:
“Sorry for the spot! Be back soon! Call me if I’m in your way: 555-**.”
I stared at the number, my anger mixing with confusion. Who does this? Who steals a parking spot and leaves a phone number like it’s no big deal?
Before I could second-guess myself, I dialed.
One ring. Two. Then—
“Hello?” A man’s voice. Calm. Unbothered.
“Yeah, hi. You’re parked in my spot. Number 27.”
“Ah, my apologies,” he said smoothly. “I’ll move it immediately.”
No explanation. No excuses. Just… compliance.
Two minutes later, a figure emerged from my building.
He wore a baseball cap pulled low, a hoodie zipped up to his chin, and—weirdest of all—sunglasses, even though the sun had already set.
He didn’t look at me. Didn’t say a word. Just slid into the Camry and drove off like a ghost.
“What the hell was that?” I muttered to myself, shaking my head as I parked my car.
At dinner, I told Amy about it, twirling spaghetti on my fork.
“You won’t believe what happened today,” I said.
She looked up, her gray eyes curious. “Try me.”
“Some guy stole my parking spot! Left a note with his number. When I called, he just moved the car. No explanation. Nothing.”
Amy smiled. “That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? At least he was polite.”
“Sweet? He stole my spot!”
“But he gave you a way to fix it. Most people wouldn’t even do that.”
I frowned. “Yeah, well… something feels off.”
And it wasn’t just a one-time thing.
It kept happening.
Same black Camry. Same spot. Same damn note.
Twice a week, sometimes three. Always on the days I was exhausted, desperate to just get home.
And every time, the same routine:
- I’d call.
- He’d answer—“I’ll move it immediately.”
- The hooded figure would appear, silent, shades on, and vanish into the night.
“This isn’t normal,” I told Amy one night, pacing our living room. “It’s like he’s doing it on purpose.”
She flipped a page in her magazine, unfazed. “Maybe he just likes messing with you.”
“Well, it’s working.”
Then came Saturday.
Gray skies. Drizzling rain. Amy was heading out for brunch with her friend Megan.
“Girls’ day!” she said, kissing my cheek. “Don’t wait up!”
“No problem,” I said. “I’ve got that meeting in Franklin anyway.”
But twenty minutes later, my boss called. “Meeting’s postponed. Enjoy your day off, Victor!”
So I changed plans.
I’d grab groceries. Maybe surprise Amy with her favorite cookies.
The store parking lot was packed. Cars everywhere. I was about to give up when—
I saw it.
The black Camry.
Parked crooked near the entrance.
My stomach dropped.
“No way.”
I checked the plates.
It was him.
The parking spot thief. Here. Now.
“Is he… following me?”
I circled the lot, watching the Camry like it was a ticking bomb. Then—
The store doors slid open.
Out walked the mystery man.
Same cap. Same hoodie.
But this time—no sunglasses.
And he wasn’t alone.
Amy was with him.
Laughing. Smiling.
Holding his hand.
My heart stopped.
They reached the Camry. He opened the door for her like a gentleman.
I followed them.
I had to know.
They drove straight to our apartment. Straight to my parking spot.
I watched from down the street as he pulled out a folded note—just like before—and tucked it under his wiper.
Then they walked inside.
Together.
I sat in my car, shaking.
The notes weren’t for him.
They were for me.
A warning system.
When I called, he’d know I was home. He’d leave.
And Amy would be there, ready with an excuse.
I’d been the alarm clock for my wife’s affair.
I walked inside, my legs numb.
The apartment door was unlocked.
Bedroom—empty.
Bathroom—empty.
Then I heard voices.
On the balcony.
I stepped outside.
And there they were.
Wrapped in each other’s arms.
They froze when they saw me.
Amy gasped. “Victor—”
“How long?” My voice was ice.
Tears spilled down her face. “Three months. I never meant to hurt you.”
I looked at her—the woman I’d loved for five years—and felt nothing.
“The notes. That was your idea, wasn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Clever.”
I turned and walked away.
“Victor, wait—!”
But I was already gone.
I packed a bag and drove to a motel. The kind with flickering neon signs and beds that smelled like bleach.
The next morning, I sent Amy one text:
“Don’t call. Don’t text. We’re done.”
Then I turned off my phone.
It took three weeks to find a new place. A tiny studio. No assigned parking. No notes. No lies.
Amy tried calling. I never answered.
What was left to say?
Now, a month later, I park wherever I want. No one’s watching. No one’s waiting.
The silence is loud.
But it’s honest.
And after everything?
Honesty feels like freedom.