Because shared buildings run on social mathematics.
You have to live beside these people for years.
Small arguments can turn hallways into hostile territory.
So I wanted to believe Daniel was simply careless.
Then one January morning, I sat outside with coffee and a book.
A tea bag dropped directly onto the pale cushion of my balcony chair.
I watched it land.
Watched the liquid soak into the fabric.
I waited to see whether the stain would spread.
It did.
That evening, I tried cleaning the cushion cover.
The mark remained.
So I went upstairs again.
This conversation was different.
Daniel opened the door and leaned casually against the frame.
“You’re still throwing tea bags over your balcony,” I said.
He shrugged.
“It’s a tea bag.”
“It stains. I already lost a towel. Now a cushion.”
He looked at me with complete indifference.
“You live below me.”
I stared at
