I asked my upstairs neighbor three separate times to stop dropping used tea bags onto my balcony. The first time, he apologized. The second time, he brushed it off like it wasn’t a big deal.

I asked my upstairs neighbor three separate times to stop dropping used tea bags onto my balcony. The first time, he apologized. The second time, he brushed it off like it wasn’t a big deal.

By the third time, he actually laughed.

So I stopped asking.

Nearly every day, a tea bag showed up on my balcony—usually around seven in the morning, and sometimes again around nine at night.

At first, I assumed it was accidental.

Then one landed on a clean white towel I had left outside to dry, leaving a large brown stain behind.

That was when I went upstairs and knocked on the door of apartment 4B.

“Is this yours?” I asked, holding up the tea bag.

He looked embarrassed.

“Oh, wow. Did that come from my balcony?”

“This isn’t the first one.”

He apologized and assured me it wouldn’t happen again.

The very next morning, another soggy tea bag was lying beside my flowerpots.

Still, I kept quiet.

I had lived in the building for eleven years and had always tried to be a relaxed, considerate neighbor. I watered plants for people when they were away, accepted deliveries, watched pets, and had even picked up his packages whenever he wasn’t home.

But a few weeks later, another tea bag landed directly on my favorite balcony chair, leaving a stain on the cushion.

I went upstairs again.

“You’re still throwing tea bags onto my balcony.”

He shrugged.

“It’s only tea.”

“It ruined a towel, and now my chair cushion is stained too.”

He leaned casually against the doorframe.

“Well, you live below me. Things fall. That’s part of apartment living.”

“They aren’t falling. You’re throwing them.”

He smiled.

“You should probably be thankful it’s just tea.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It could be worse.”

Then he laughed and shut the door.

That irritated me more than the tea bags ever had.

I knew losing my temper wouldn’t solve anything. If I yelled or caused a scene, he could easily tell everyone that the woman downstairs had gone crazy over a few harmless tea bags.

So I decided to give him one last chance.

The next morning, at exactly 7:04, I heard the familiar sound.

*Plop.*

Another tea bag.

I stared at it for a few seconds, then smiled.

By the time I finished my coffee, I knew exactly what I was going to do.

Nothing destructive. Nothing illegal. No yelling in the hallway.

That afternoon, I installed a small security camera pointed only at my balcony.

The following morning, I was sitting outside before seven.

At 7:03, I heard his balcony door slide open.

About a minute later, his hand appeared over the railing.

The tea bag dropped.

And this time, I had evidence.

His hand. His balcony. The tea bag falling straight down onto mine.

I saved the footage.

Then I waited.

Another tea bag came down that evening.

Another arrived the next morning.

By the end of the week, I had eleven separate recordings.

When the building manager stopped by, I showed her the stained towel, the damaged cushion, and every video.

She watched in silence.

Then she said something I never expected.

“You’re not the only one.”

Apparently, other residents had complained about wrappers, cups, and other trash coming from apartment 4B.

But no one had ever been able to prove it.

Until now.

Two days later, he knocked on my door.

“You got me in trouble.”

“No,” I replied. “You got yourself in trouble.”

“You could’ve just talked to me.”

“I did. Three times.”

For once, he had no response.

Several weeks passed.

No tea bags. No garbage.

Then one evening, I found a box sitting outside my door.

Inside was a brand-new chair cushion, a fresh white towel, expensive tea, and a note.

“I mistook your patience for weakness. I’m sorry. I also bought a trash can for my balcony. This tea is staying upstairs.”

I laughed and figured that was the end of it.

A month later, at exactly 7:04 in the morning, I heard it again.

*Plop.*

I froze.

A tea bag was lying beside my flowerpot.

But this time, a tiny note was tied to it.

“Check your door.”

Outside was a birthday present.

The card read:

“Thought one tea bag on your balcony might be acceptable today. Happy birthday. —Your formerly awful upstairs neighbor.”

I burst out laughing.

From the balcony above, I heard him shout:

“ONLY ONE!”

And somehow, the neighbor I once couldn’t stand became the neighbor who remembered my birthday.

So tell me: would you have given him another chance, or would you have reported him much sooner?