She’d probably have dinner waiting, I thought. Maybe she cooked that lasagna I loved, the one with extra cheese that made everything better.

I get home around 6:30 p.m. every evening. My apartment complex gives one assigned parking space per unit. Ours is #27. It’s right in front of our building. I earned that spot.

So when I pulled in and saw a black Camry already parked there like it owned the place, I was pissed.

“Are you kidding me?” I muttered, gripping my keys so tight they bit into my palm.

I marched over to give this joker a piece of my mind, but something white caught my eye. A folded piece of paper was tucked under the windshield wiper. It fluttered in the evening breeze like a surrender flag.

Curious, I unfolded it. The handwriting was neat: “Sorry for the spot! Be back soon! Call me if I’m in your way: 555-****.”

I stared at those numbers until they burned into my brain. Who does this? Who just takes someone’s parking space and leaves their phone number?

I pulled out my phone and dialed before I could talk myself out of it.

One ring. Two rings. Then he answered.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, hi. You’re parked in my spot. Number 27.”

“Ah, my apologies. I’ll move it immediately.”

That was it. No explanation or excuses.

Two minutes later, I watched from across the lot as a figure emerged from my building.

His baseball cap was pulled low. His hoodie was zipped up. And he was wearing sunglasses despite the dim evening light.

He got into the Camry and drove off without so much as a glance in my direction.

“Okay! That was… weird!” I said to the empty air, but I shrugged it off and parked my beat-up car where it belonged.

“You’re not going to believe what happened today, babe!” I told Amy over dinner, twirling spaghetti around my fork.

She looked up from her plate, those gray eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Try me.”

“A guy stole my parking space! He left a note with his phone number. When I called, he just moved the car. No questions asked. Weirdo!”

“That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? At least he was polite about it.”

“Sweet? He stole my parking space!”

“But he gave you a way to fix it. Most people would just leave you stranded. Maybe he’s just absent-minded.”

“Maybe you’re right!” I said, though something still felt off about the whole thing.

But it wasn’t just once. It kept happening. Same black Camry, same spot, and the same note… always in that neat handwriting and the same phone number.

Twice a week, sometimes three times. Always when I’d had a particularly long day at work and was most desperate to just get home and decompress.

And every single time, the mystery man would appear within minutes of my call. Same baseball cap, same hoodie, and the same sunglasses. He’d nod politely, get in his car, and vanish like smoke.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I told Amy one evening, pacing our small living room. “It’s like he’s doing it on purpose.”

She was curled up on the couch, reading a magazine. “Maybe he just likes messing with you.”

“It’s working,” I muttered, running my hands through my hair. “I’m starting to feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“Oh, come on, Victor. It’s just parking. He always moves when you ask, right? What’s the big deal?”

“That’s not the point, Amy. It’s my spot. I earned it. I fought with our neighbor Mr. Smiths for that particular spot.”

“You’re being paranoid. It’s probably just some poor guy who can’t remember where he’s supposed to park.”

Saturday morning arrived gray and drizzling. Amy announced she was meeting her friend Megan for brunch.

“We might hang out afterward!” she chirped. “Just us girls!”

“Take your time!” I said, kissing her cheek. “I’ve got that client meeting out in Franklin, so I’ll probably be gone most of the day.”

“No rush,” she smiled. “Text me later?”

“Of course.”

But 20 minutes after she left, my phone buzzed. My boss called to say the meeting had been postponed. “Enjoy the day off, Victor!” he said.

So I changed my plans.

Instead of driving across town, I decided to hit the grocery store. I wanted to get some snacks and maybe grab a box of those cookies Amy loved. Just a lazy Saturday errand to fill the space.

The parking lot was a nightmare. Cars were packed in like sardines, everyone fighting for the few remaining spots. I was about to give up and try somewhere else when I saw it.

The black Camry.

It was parked crooked near the front entrance like it owned the whole damn lot.

I crept closer, checking the license plate with shaking hands.

It was him. The mystery man. Here, at the grocery store.

“What are the odds?” I whispered to myself, a cold dread settling in my stomach like a stone. “Is he… stalking me??”

I circled the lot three times, looking for a space, watching that Camry like it was a bomb about to go off. Every few minutes, I’d glance at the store entrance, waiting to see who would come out.

And then he did. The same mystery man. He was tall, wearing that same baseball cap and hoodie. But no sunglasses this time. I could see his face clearly. And he wasn’t alone.

“Oh my God! A-AMY??” I gasped.

My wife walked beside him, laughing at something he said.

She looked radiant and more chirpy than I’d seen her in months. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. She looked… comfortable.

And they were holding hands.

“No. This… this can’t be,” I whispered, hoping it was an illusion.

They walked to the Camry like they’d done it a thousand times before. Amy slid into the passenger seat while he held the door open for her.

I followed them. I don’t know why. Maybe I was hoping I’d misunderstood. Maybe there was some innocent explanation for what I’d just witnessed. Maybe they were friends. Maybe this whole parking thing was a prank.

But they drove straight to my apartment complex. Straight to my parking space.

I parked down the street and watched through my rearview mirror as they got out of the car. The man reached into his hoodie, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and tucked it under his windshield wiper.

The same routine. The same note. The same number.

Then they walked toward my building, Amy’s hand still in his, like they belonged together.

I sat in my car for five minutes, trying to make sense of what I’d just seen. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip the steering wheel.

The pieces were falling into place now, each one hitting me like a gut punch. The note wasn’t for him. It was for me. It was a signal system.

When I called, he’d know I was home. He’d leave. And Amy would be waiting, probably in the shower or on the phone, with some perfectly innocent explanation for why she couldn’t greet me at the door.

I’d been the unwitting alarm clock for my wife’s affair.

Finally, I forced myself out of the car and walked to my building. The black Camry sat in my spot like a monument to my stupidity.

I climbed the stairs to our apartment, each step feeling like it might be my last. The door was unlocked, as always.

I checked the bedroom. It was empty. The bathroom too. But the sliding door to our balcony was open, and I could hear voices drifting in on the lavender-soaked breeze.

I stepped outside and found them there, locked in an embrace so intimate it made my chest cave in.

They froze when they saw me. Amy gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The man stepped back like I was contagious.

“Vi-VICTOR??”

“How long?”

Amy just stared at me, tears streaming down her face.

“Three months. I’m sorry, Victor. I never meant for it to happen like this.”

“Like what? Like getting caught?”

I looked at the woman I’d loved for five years. She was a stranger now.

“The note system? That was your idea, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

“Clever!” I said, and walked back into the apartment.

“Victor, wait… Victor…”

I packed a bag and drove to a motel on the outskirts of town. The kind of place where nobody asked questions and the coffee was always stale. I sat on the scratchy bedspread and stared at the water stains on the ceiling, trying to figure out what came next.

The next morning, I sent Amy a text: “Don’t call. Don’t text. I’m filing for divorce.”

Then I turned off my phone and drove back to our apartment to collect my things. The Camry was gone, but I could still smell his perfume in the hallway.

It took me three weeks to find a new place. A small studio across town with just enough parking space for my car. No numbers, notes, or mystery men. Just silence. And peace.

Amy tried to call a few times, but I never answered. What was there to say? That she was sorry? That it didn’t mean anything? That she still loved me?

Some words are just noise.

I’ve been in my new place for a month now. I park wherever I want, and come and go as I please. No one’s watching. No one’s waiting. And no one’s playing games with my heart.

The silence is loud sometimes, but it’s honest. And after everything I’ve been through, honesty feels like luxury.

Freedom doesn’t always feel like victory. Sometimes it just feels like breathing again after you’ve been holding your breath for so long. And for the first time in weeks, that was enough.

Here’s another story: I made peace with not being able to give my husband a child. Then I found tiny pink baby shoes in his trunk and what came next broke me.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.