The Stranger in My Parking Spot – A Twisted Betrayal
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.
She probably made dinner already, I thought. Maybe that cheesy lasagna she knows I love.
I always got home around 6:30 p.m. Our apartment complex had assigned parking—one spot per unit. Ours was #27, right in front of our building. I 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 hissed, gripping my keys so hard they dug into my palm.
I stormed over, ready to give this guy a piece of my mind—but then I saw it. A folded piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper, fluttering in the breeze like some kind of sick joke.
I snatched it open. Neat handwriting stared back at me:
“Sorry for the spot! Be back soon! Call me if I’m in your way: 555-**.”
I blinked. Who does this? Who steals a parking spot and leaves their number like it’s no big deal?
Without thinking, I dialed.
One ring. Two. Then—
“Hello?” A man’s voice, calm.
“Yeah, hi. You’re in my spot. Number 27.”
“Ah, my apologies. I’ll move it immediately.”
Click.
No explanation. No excuses.
Two minutes later, a figure emerged from my building. Baseball cap pulled low. Hoodie zipped up. Sunglasses—even though the sun was nearly gone.
He slid into the Camry and drove off without even looking at me.
“What the hell was that?” I muttered to myself, shaking my head as I finally 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, gray eyes curious. “Try me.”
“Some guy stole my parking spot! Left a note with his number. I called, and he just… moved. No explanation. Super weird!”
Amy smiled. “That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? At least he was polite.”
“Sweet? He took my spot!”
“But he gave you a way to fix it,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe he’s just forgetful.”
Maybe. But something about it felt… off.
The Pattern
It didn’t stop there.
The black Camry kept coming back. Same spot. Same note. Same number.
Twice a week. Sometimes three. Always on the days I worked late, when I was exhausted and just wanted to get home.
And every time, the same routine: I’d call, and within minutes, the mystery man would appear—hoodie, sunglasses, baseball cap—nod politely, and vanish into the night.
“This isn’t normal,” I told Amy one evening, pacing the living room. “It’s like he’s doing it on purpose.”
She flipped a magazine page, unfazed. “Maybe he just likes messing with you.”
“It’s working,” I muttered. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
“Oh, relax, Victor. He always moves when you ask, right? What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that it’s my spot!”
The Truth Comes Out
Then came that Saturday.
Gray skies. Light rain. Amy was heading out for brunch with her friend Megan.
“We might hang out after!” she said, kissing my cheek. “Just us girls!”
“Have fun,” I said. “I’ve got that meeting in Franklin, so I’ll be gone all day.”
But twenty minutes later, my boss called. “Meeting’s postponed. Enjoy your day off, Victor!”
So I changed plans.
I decided to hit the grocery store, grab some snacks—maybe those cookies Amy loved.
The parking lot was packed. Cars fighting for space. And then—
I saw it.
The black Camry.
Parked crooked near the entrance.
My stomach dropped.
“No way…”
I checked the plates.
It was him.
Here. At the grocery store.
“Is he… following me?” I whispered, heart pounding.
I circled the lot, watching the Camry like it was a ticking bomb. Then—
The store doors slid open.
Out he walked. Same hoodie. Same cap. But no sunglasses this time.
And he wasn’t alone.
“Amy?!”
My wife was beside him, laughing, her hair loose, no makeup—looking happier than she had in months.
And they were holding hands.
I stopped breathing.
They walked to the Camry like it was routine. He opened the door for her. She slid in like she belonged there.
I followed them.
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 always—and tucked it under the wiper.
Then they walked inside. Together.
The Final Blow
I sat in my car, hands shaking.
The truth hit me like a truck.
The notes weren’t for him. They were for me.
A signal.
When I called, he knew I was home. He’d leave. And Amy would be there, acting like nothing was wrong.
I’d been the alarm clock for my wife’s affair.
I forced myself inside. The apartment door was unlocked.
The bedroom was empty. The bathroom too.
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. The man stepped back like I was poison.
“Victor?!” she choked out.
“How long?” My voice was ice.
Tears streamed down her face. “Three months. I never meant to hurt you.”
“The notes? That was your idea, wasn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Clever,” I spat, then turned and walked out.
Aftermath
I packed a bag and drove to a motel. The kind with stained carpets and flickering neon signs.
The next morning, I texted Amy:
“Don’t call. Don’t text. I’m filing for divorce.”
Then I turned off my phone.
It took weeks to find a new place. A small studio. No assigned parking. No notes. No lies.
Amy tried calling. I never answered.
Some words aren’t worth hearing.
Now, I park wherever I want. Come and go as I please. No one’s watching. No one’s waiting.
The silence is loud sometimes.
But it’s honest.
And after everything?
Honesty feels like a luxury.