Former Tenant Blocked His Ex-Roommate After She Left the Apartment Destroyed and Disappeared Without Paying Damages

Photo credit: AI-generated image created using ChatGPT. Illustrative only.

Two months after moving out to get away from what he described as a volatile roommate, a former tenant thought he’d done the hard part: he lined up a subletter, stepped back, and tried to let the lease run its course. Instead, he says he got pulled right back in—fronting thousands in rent, chasing repayment, and watching the living arrangement unravel in real time, as described in the original post.

By the end of the ordeal, he had blocked both his old roommate and the subletter and decided he was done paying anything else toward the unit. It’s the kind of move that feels emotionally clean in the moment—until you remember the lease still exists, and joint liability clauses don’t care who moved out first.

He thought the sublet would be the clean break

The poster says he moved out of the apartment two months earlier because living with his roommate had become unbearable. To protect himself financially and keep the landlord paid, he found a subletter to take over his room.

Even that “solution” started with a small money problem. The subletter hadn’t fully replaced the security deposit, leaving the poster short by $300. He says he tried to stay patient, assuming it would get handled.

Then December rent arrived, and the system they’d been using—both tenants sending rent together through one payment—broke down. The roommate, he says, decided not to send the combined rent through Venmo that month, and the subletter claimed he didn’t use Venmo at all, only Zelle.

Fronting rent turned into a surprise loan

To keep the landlord paid on time, the poster agreed to send December rent on the subletter’s behalf, expecting immediate reimbursement. The subletter asked him to cover it, and he did—under the impression the money would be sent back right away.

That didn’t happen. He says he sent multiple messages and got no reply. Four days passed before the subletter finally responded with an explanation: money troubles.

The subletter promised to start making him whole quickly—$650 the next day and the rest the following week. But the payments came slowly and partially. The poster says he received $550 two days later, then got ignored again for five more days while he asked when the remaining $1,500 would arrive.

When the subletter promised the rest would come Friday, the poster waited. Friday came and went, and nothing hit his account.

The breaking point: “I didn’t consent to lending him money”

By Saturday, the poster says he pushed harder. He told the subletter he needed to pay back what he’d promised, and the subletter again cited financial problems.

That was when the poster framed it in blunt terms: he believed the subletter had essentially taken money from him without permission. He said he hadn’t agreed to a loan—he had only sent the landlord rent because he believed he’d be reimbursed immediately.

In his view, $2,000 isn’t a casual favor, and it isn’t something you get to “work out later” after the fact. He felt trapped in a mess he didn’t create: paying for a unit he no longer lived in, covering for a subletter who wouldn’t pay on time, and navigating a roommate dynamic he’d moved out to escape.

Eventually, he says the subletter did send money, but not enough to fully cover the rent. Along with the partial repayment came another twist: the subletter announced he was going to move out, calling the whole situation “a whole mess,” and claimed he was also having issues with the roommate.

Blocking them both—and walking away from the lease

After that, the poster cut off communication. He blocked the subletter and blocked his former roommate. And then he made a decision that raises the stakes beyond interpersonal drama: he says he’s refusing to pay rent for the remainder of the lease and won’t look for another subletter.

His reasoning is straightforward, even if it’s risky. He points out that the lease has joint liability for the monthly balance between him and the roommate, meaning the landlord can pursue both of them if rent goes unpaid. Even so, he’s willing to gamble that the landlord won’t sue over the final three months if his roommate doesn’t cover the full amount.

He also seems resigned to losing money either way. He says the landlord can keep his security deposit. And he adds that if the landlord does sue both tenants, he isn’t bothered about paying the remaining rent then—he just doesn’t want to keep paying month-to-month while the unit stays chaotic.

Underneath it all is a sense of retaliation mixed with self-protection: he believes the roommate is “driving out everyone who lives there,” and if that’s true, he thinks the roommate can figure out the last stretch alone.

Where the real risk sits: joint liability doesn’t care who’s “at fault”

The poster’s plan hinges on a big assumption: that the landlord won’t enforce the lease aggressively. But joint liability clauses are designed for exactly this kind of breakdown—where tenants blame each other, subletters come and go, and the landlord just wants the full rent paid.

Even though the poster has already moved out, he’s still tied to the contract he signed. If rent goes unpaid, a landlord can pursue the full amount from either tenant, not just the one still living there. That means the poster’s strategy could turn his attempt to stop the bleeding into a larger financial hit later, depending on how the landlord responds.

There’s also the smaller but immediate problem he already lived through: when payments get routed through people instead of directly from each responsible party to the landlord, it becomes easy for someone to stall, dodge, or disappear. The poster found himself in the middle—acting as a payment processor for a household that wasn’t functioning.

What readers tended to focus on: paper trails and who owes whom

In stories like this, the practical questions come fast: Who paid the landlord? Who owes reimbursement? What proof exists? While the post itself is centered on whether blocking and refusing future rent makes him the bad guy, the underlying fight is about documentation and liability.

Even without a detailed comment log included in the source material, the pressure points are obvious. The poster has Venmo/Zelle records, message threads showing promises and delays, and a clear timeline of what was paid and what wasn’t. Those details matter if the dispute escalates—whether with the landlord, in small claims, or in a negotiation over the security deposit.

Another theme people zero in on in roommate blowups is the difference between emotional closure and financial closure. Blocking someone can stop the daily stress, but it can also end the flow of information you may need—like whether the subletter actually moved out, whether the roommate is paying, or whether the landlord is preparing action against both tenants.

The poster’s frustration is easy to follow: he tried to do the responsible thing and keep rent current, and he feels punished for it. But the consequence of stepping away now is that any future fallout may arrive all at once, in a form that can’t be muted with a block button.

For now, the apartment is still out there, the lease clock is still ticking, and the poster has chosen to let the roommate deal with the next three months unless a lawsuit forces his hand. It’s a hard line drawn after weeks of late replies and partial payments—one that might finally end the constant messaging, but could also be the start of a different kind of problem.