And another.
By December, there had been several.
One morning, I hung two white towels outside.
When I returned, one had a large brown stain across the center.
A soaked tea bag sat in the fold of the fabric.
That was when I finally went upstairs.
Daniel opened the door looking half awake.
When I explained what was happening, he looked genuinely embarrassed.
“Oh no. That was me?”
“It has happened several times.”
He rubbed his face.
“I’m sorry. I flick them over the railing when I’m tired. I don’t even think about it.”
Then he looked horrified when I mentioned the towel.
“I’ll stop. Seriously.”
He sounded sincere.
So sincere, in fact, that I went downstairs feeling slightly guilty for making a fuss.
At seven the next morning, another tea bag landed on my balcony.
I heard it hit the concrete.
Still, I waited.
Three weeks.
People later asked why I didn’t immediately complain again.
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.”
