Living on Maple Street was my kind of heaven: a peaceful apartment block with one unbreakable rule—carry your key after 8 p.m. It was simple but effective in keeping things orderly. That was until Hurricane Michelle blew in.

From the moment Michelle arrived, her vibrant personality and loud demeanor were impossible to ignore. I should’ve taken her over-the-top introduction as a sign of things to come.

When she arrived with a parade of boxes, her entrance was as flashy as her fashion sense. “Hey, new neighbors!” she bellowed, “I’m Michelle! Who’s gonna help me with these boxes?”

Matt from 2B and I exchanged weary glances, then helped her with her load. Michelle chatted nonstop, and while I appreciated the gesture, her disregard for our quiet rule was evident. “You’ll see, I’ll bring some excitement around here!” she said with a wink.

Sure enough, Michelle quickly became the loudest presence in the building. It started with occasional loud music and late-night clattering but escalated into a nightly nuisance. By the second Friday, the thump-thump-thump of her music was impossible to ignore. Even Biscuit, my usually laid-back dog, was unsettled by the noise.

Then came the late-night interruptions. Michelle, often inebriated, would bang on windows and ring every buzzer in the building. One night, she even tapped on my bedroom window at 2:37 a.m., demanding I let her in.

The situation grew unbearable. I tried to reason with Michelle, but she dismissed my concerns with a carefree attitude, “Rules are meant to be broken!” Her entitlement and repeated disregard for the apartment’s rules drove everyone crazy.

Eventually, Tiffany from 3A, Matt, and I gathered to discuss solutions. The landlord, who happened to be Michelle’s uncle, refused to take action. “She’s just having a bit of fun. You all need to lighten up,” he said dismissively.

Frustrated, we knew something had to be done. Riley from 4C proposed an idea that was petty but felt deserved. We decided to turn the tables and give Michelle a taste of her own medicine.

One night, as usual, Michelle returned home around 1 a.m., stumbling and buzzing our apartments. When she finally got in, I went outside and buzzed her apartment non-stop.

Her voice crackled over the intercom, “Who is this, and what’s your problem?”

“It’s me, Adrienne,” I said sweetly. “I forgot my key. Be a pal and buzz me in?”

“Are you serious? It’s 1 a.m.!” she protested.

“Oh, but I always do it for you,” I replied. “What’s the problem?”

The next part of our plan was Tiffany knocking on Michelle’s door with exaggerated urgency. “Michelle? Are you home? Just checking if someone let you in. Good night!”

The cycle continued for days. Each time Michelle forgot her key, we made sure to reciprocate her nocturnal disturbances. By day five, Michelle was visibly exhausted. Her once-pristine appearance was replaced with rumpled clothes and tired eyes.

Desperate, Michelle approached us, her voice hoarse. “Please, can you guys stop this? I get it. Just stop waking me up every night!”

Tiffany couldn’t resist a parting shot. “Oh, so you understand how annoying it is now? Funny, you didn’t seem to care when it was us.”

Michelle, on the brink of tears, nodded. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll start carrying my key. Just let me sleep.”

We were satisfied. It wasn’t the grand apology we might have wanted, but it was something. Michelle finally understood the impact of her actions, and for the first time since her arrival, our building was quiet.

The next night, I heard Michelle’s familiar clatter on the stairs. But to my surprise, there was no banging, no buzzing—just the soft click of a key in the lock.

I settled back on my couch, smiling to myself. Sometimes, it takes a bit of poetic justice to bring everyone back to harmony. As for Michelle, she had finally learned the value of sticking to the rules—one sleepless night at a time.

Biscuit wagged his tail in agreement, and our little apartment block was finally at peace.