I’m Grace, 31, and I live in a small apartment in Astoria, Queens, with my boyfriend, Theo. He’s 35, works in FinTech, and has the kind of face that makes baristas smile without knowing why.
Me? I work HR at a media company and spend most of my time dodging Zoom calls and drinking reheated coffee from mugs I forget to wash.
Our apartment isn’t much, just a one-bedroom with squeaky floors, brick walls that pretend to be charming, and a bathroom so small I can brush my teeth and pee at the same time if I angle myself right. But it’s ours.
Or it was.
We’d been dating for two years, living together for just over one. He’s easy to live with in the way that quiet men are. He doesn’t leave dishes in the sink, folds his laundry, and says things like, “Want me to pick up oat milk?” without being asked. On paper, he was perfect.
And I thought I was happy. I really did.
It started on a random Tuesday morning.
I’d just gotten back from the gym.
Still sweaty, I stepped on our smart scale while brushing my teeth. The number blinked: 159 pounds. Not unusual. I’d had Thai food the night before and half a bottle of red, so whatever. I didn’t think twice about it.
But the next morning? 130 pounds.
I stared at the screen like it had cursed me.
“No way,” I muttered, stepping off and back on. 130.1. Again.
I changed the batteries. Moved it to the hallway. Then the bedroom. Then back to the bathroom.
Same thing.
Later that day, I weighed myself at the gym again — 158.4.
“What the hell?” I whispered under my breath, staring at the number like it had betrayed me.
When I told Theo, he gave me that calm, annoyingly rational look he always pulled out when I was spiraling.
“Babe, you’re overthinking,” he said, not even looking up from his phone. “It’s glitchy. These smart scales always are.”
“Glitchy how? They’re not supposed to vary by thirty freaking pounds, Theo.”
“It’s the floor. Uneven surfaces or something.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“I put it on the tile. I tried the hallway. It’s flat.”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the app. Or bad Bluetooth. You know, tech stuff.”
I didn’t argue. Not then. But I couldn’t let it go.
For the next two weeks, I became obsessed. I checked the scale every morning and every evening. And every time, the same weird pattern. When I weighed myself at home in the mornings before work, it said 130 to 131. But at the gym after work?
Back to 158 to 160.
I Googled everything: “sudden weight loss and gain,” “weight scale malfunction,” “does your body change mass throughout the day.” At 2 a.m., I was deep in Reddit threads and medical forums, rubbing my temples and trying to figure out if I was sick or slowly going insane.
Theo, half-asleep beside me, rolled over and grunted, “Seriously, babe, it’s just a tech bug. Go to sleep.”
I wanted to believe him. But my gut whispered something else.
The next day, while at work, I finally pulled up the scale’s app data. I hadn’t thought of checking it before. It syncs automatically through Wi-Fi, so I figured it’d just reflect what I’d already seen.
But what I saw made my stomach clench.
The 130-pound readings? They popped up only on weekday afternoons. Around 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. Every single one of them. The exact times I was always at the office.
And worse, the data wasn’t static. It was trending down slowly and gradually, like someone tracking their weight.
Not mine. Someone else’s.
I stared at the graph on my phone screen, my pulse thudding in my ears. That wasn’t a glitch. That was a pattern. A person. Someone was using my scale while I was gone. Regularly.
Casually.
I sat frozen at my desk, unable to focus on the email I was supposed to be writing.
Later that night, I pulled Theo into the kitchen as he was loading the dishwasher.
“Theo, do you ever weigh yourself when I’m not home?” I asked, keeping my tone light.
He gave me a weird look. “No? Why would I? That thing always gives me weird numbers.”
“Have any of your friends ever come over while I’m at work?” I asked.
He paused, then said, “Sometimes. Ryan dropped off my jacket once. Why?”
“No reason,” I said, trying to sound normal.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept going over the numbers in my head. I even dreamed about the scale blinking a different weight every time I stepped on it, like some twisted carnival game.
The next morning, I did what I should’ve done days ago. I emailed the customer support team pretending to be confused about the readings.
I wrote, “Hi, I’ve noticed large fluctuations in my weight data. The readings change drastically depending on the time of day. Could this be a device error?”
Their reply came fast.
It was simple and brutal.
“Large variance usually indicates multiple users. The system auto-assigns based on patterns.”
That was it. One line. My blood went cold.
Someone else was in my apartment. In my bathroom. Stepping on my scale. While I was at work.
I felt sick. My skin tingled like it knew something before my brain had caught up.
I didn’t say a word to Theo.
I didn’t scream, accuse, or cry. I smiled when he handed me my coffee that morning. I told him I had a meeting and wouldn’t be back until late. I even kissed him goodbye.
But inside, I was already making a plan.
The morning after that support email, I sat on the edge of the bed, holding my phone like it was about to explode. Theo was in the shower, humming like he had no clue his whole secret life was unraveling.
I turned on push notifications in the scale’s app. There was a feature buried deep in settings that read, “Alert me on every weigh-in.” I toggled it on. Then I checked the paired devices list.
Three entries.
One was my iPhone. The second was Theo’s Pixel. The third? Just “iPhone.”
No name, no emoji, just floating there like a ghost.
I renamed my scale profile to something no one could miss: “THIS IS GRACE’S SCALE.” All caps. Petty, sure, but necessary.
Next, I changed the Wi-Fi password. The smart scale would disconnect until someone manually reconnected it using the new credentials. Which meant the next time someone tried to weigh themselves, they’d be stuck.
I made sure to log out of the app on Theo’s phone. I had access through an old password he never bothered to change. He probably wouldn’t even notice. Then, I waited.
I didn’t have to wait long.
On Thursday, I was halfway through a budget report at work when my phone buzzed. The notification lit up like a flashing sign.
New weigh-in: 131.4 lbs.
Time: 2:17 p.m.
My heart jumped into my throat. There it was. That mystery person was back.
I stared at the notification for two seconds, then stood up, grabbed my coat, and told my manager, “I have a migraine; I’m going home.”
“Want me to call you a car?” she asked, already concerned.
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
I was already tapping for an Uber.
The ride was quiet. The city moved around me like I wasn’t there, just a blur and noise. I clutched my phone the whole way, my hands clammy, my heart racing. But I wasn’t scared anymore. I was done.
I reached our apartment by 2:45 p.m. and walked up the stairs as if I was moving in slow motion. My keys shook in the lock. When I stepped inside, the first thing I noticed was the shoes.
Small, white sneakers.
Not mine. Definitely not Theo’s.
There was a scent in the air, light and floral, the kind that smelled expensive. Shampoo, or maybe lotion. It wasn’t anything I owned.
I set my bag down quietly and walked through the apartment.
The bathroom light was off, but my things had been moved. My hairbrush, always tucked into the drawer, sat on the counter. His razor was wet, like it had just been rinsed. And next to it was a tinted lip balm.
A brand I didn’t use.
The smart scale was still there, sitting innocently in the corner. On its surface, barely visible, was the faintest outline of a footprint.
I stepped out into the hallway and turned toward the kitchen.
She was there, standing barefoot in one of Theo’s T-shirts, sipping from my favorite mug with the chipped handle. Her hair was still damp from a shower. She looked up at me.
Startled. But not guilty.
I blinked and forced the calmest voice I could find. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Grace. I live here.”
Her mouth opened, but no words came out at first.
Her eyes searched mine, wide and suddenly aware.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” she said. “He told me—”
Theo’s voice cut through the hallway. “Babe? You left the—” He turned the corner, pulling on sweatpants, and froze when he saw me.
His face drained of color. “What are you doing here?”
I didn’t move. “It’s my apartment,” I said, locking eyes with him. “What are you doing here at 2:20 p.m. on a Thursday?”
He blinked.
His mouth opened, then closed. “This is not what it looks like; we were just—”
I held up my phone, screen glowing. “It looks like 131.4 at 2:17 p.m. on my scale, which now needs my Wi-Fi to connect. It also looks like a third device has been paired to it for the past seven weeks.”
The woman turned to him sharply. “Seven weeks?”
I turned the screen so she could see the trend graph. The line dipped neatly across each weekday afternoon.
“He told you he lived alone?” I asked, not cruelly.
She nodded, her hand slowly lowering the mug.
“Divorced. Fresh start.”
I pointed at the framed photo on the wall, the one of me and Theo at Thanksgiving with our arms around each other and goofy smiles. “Not divorced,” I said. “Just fresh lies.”
Theo took a step toward me, voice low. “Grace, come on, this is ridiculous. You’re twisting things. You’ve been paranoid for weeks.”
“Stop gaslighting me,” I said firmly. “The data doesn’t lie. You just counted on me to ignore it.”
He looked stunned, as if he hadn’t expected me to fight back.
The woman suddenly stepped back and pulled the T-shirt off over her head.
Underneath, she wore a sports bra and leggings.
“Here,” she said, holding the shirt out to him. “I’m leaving.” She turned to me. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
I nodded. “I know. Not your fault.”
“Can I text you? Just… in case I need to explain.”
I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
To Theo, she said, “Lose my number.”
She walked past him and out the door without another word.
Theo turned to me. “You planned this? So you’re actually spying on me now?”
“I’m protecting myself,” I said. “And yeah, I planned this. Because I couldn’t trust you to tell me the truth.”
I handed him an envelope.
Inside was a printed list of his things, all packed and waiting in the hallway. His electronics were on the dining table. The letter inside explained everything.
“You have 30 days to pick up anything else. By appointment only,” I said. “The lease is in my name. The locks are being changed at four.”
“You’re seriously throwing this away?” he asked, eyes wide, voice rising. “Over a misunderstanding?”
“A misunderstanding?” I scoffed. “There’s a literal Bluetooth log of your double life. Spare me.”
He tried again.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“No,” I said calmly. “I made the mistake of trusting you.”
He left with a duffel bag and the kind of look that used to make me doubt myself. But not this time. I stood in the doorway, phone in one hand, and watched him go.
My friend Rachel was waiting downstairs, leaning against her car with takeout and a bottle of wine. She didn’t say anything, just opened her arms, and I sank into them.
“You did well,” she whispered. “You really did.”
That night, as I was folding laundry and trying to feel normal again, I got a message from the woman.
“I’m sorry.”
I stared at it for a while before replying.
“Me too. Take care of yourself.”
We both blocked him. I never learned her name. But weirdly, that small moment between us felt more healing than anything Theo ever said.
Now, the scale sits exactly where it always did. But it doesn’t “glitch” anymore. No mystery weigh-ins. No strange dips.
Just me.
Funny thing about accuracy: when the extra weight leaves your life, everything else starts to measure right.
And I don’t need a push notification to tell me what’s true in my own home.
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