My roommate’s girlfriend stays over at our place quite often. When she uses our bathroom, she always leaves a clothespin on the showerhead. Every single time! I’m hesitant to ask her because we’re not close.

Why would anyone do that?

At first, I thought maybe it was some quirky habit, like a thing to mark her “spot” or whatever. Like how people leave toothbrushes behind when they start sleeping over. But a clothespin? On the showerhead? It didn’t make sense.

I noticed it after the third time she stayed the night. I took my morning shower, and there it was—a blue plastic clothespin, just clamped right onto the metal neck of the showerhead, tilted slightly like it didn’t belong. The first few times, I’d just take it off and leave it on the counter. But the next day, it’d be back up there, exactly in the same spot.

It bugged me more than it should have, honestly. Not because it was doing any harm, but because it felt…intentional. Weirdly ritualistic. And since I barely knew the girl—I mean, we’d exchanged, what, six words?—it started to creep me out. Like I was part of something I hadn’t agreed to.

Her name’s Priya. She’s quiet, polite, always wipes down the counters after cooking, and somehow never makes the apartment feel crowded even when she’s here for three nights straight. My roommate—Shane—is completely smitten. I don’t blame him. She’s one of those people who seems like they’re reading a novel even when they’re just staring at their tea.

Still, the clothespin thing started messing with me. Every time I went into the bathroom, I’d see it and feel… watched? Not literally. But like I was stepping into someone else’s routine without knowing the rules. Like I was trespassing.

One Saturday morning, after Shane and Priya had gone out for a hike, I decided to finally ask. I texted Shane:
“Hey man, quick question. What’s up with the clothespin on the showerhead? Priya’s thing?”

He texted back:
“Lol yeah. Ask her tho, I don’t actually know. Some kind of water-pressure hack maybe?”

That didn’t explain much, but now I had a decision: ask her directly, or keep pretending I didn’t notice.

I waited.

But the next time she stayed over, I found two clothespins. One on the showerhead, and one clipped to the sink faucet. Same style, same color.

Now it felt like a message. Or a warning. Or I was going nuts.

So I asked her.

We were both in the kitchen. She was making chai, and I was grabbing a glass of water.

“Hey,” I said, keeping it casual, “Can I ask you something kinda random?”

She turned and smiled, nodding.

“The clothespins. In the bathroom. Is that, like… a thing?”

For a second, her face froze. Just slightly. Like I’d asked something deeply personal. Then she looked down, gave this half-laugh, and said, “Yeah. Sorry. I should’ve explained.”

I waited.

She looked up. “It’s for my brother.”

That threw me. “Your brother?”

“He passed away three years ago,” she said, stirring the chai slowly. “Drowned in a river back home. The clothespins are for him.”

I didn’t know what to say.

She added, “Every time I take a shower, I put one up to remind myself to be present. Not to take water for granted. Sounds silly, I know.”

I shook my head. “No, not silly.”

She smiled again, softly. “It helps me stay close to him. I used to blame myself.”

Then the kettle hissed, and the moment dissolved. She offered me some chai. I said yes.

After that, I couldn’t unsee the clothespins the same way. They became small monuments of love. Grief. Memory. I left them where they were.

But something else started to shift too.

We began talking more. About simple things at first—music, favorite dishes, the weird neighbor who feeds crows on the balcony. Then deeper stuff. Family. Regret. What we wanted from our twenties.

One night, Shane was out with coworkers, and she and I were both home. We ended up watching this old Hindi film she loved, curled on opposite sides of the couch. Halfway through, I asked about her brother.

His name was Aarav. He’d been two years older than her. He was reckless in a charming way—always climbing trees, running barefoot through fields, daring her to race him to the edge of lakes.

He’d dared her once to swim across a wide part of the Netravati River. She chickened out. He went anyway. The current pulled him under. They never found his body.

She’d been sixteen. He was eighteen.

The clothespins started a month later. Her therapist had suggested making a ritual to transform guilt into something grounding. Water had become a trigger—showering, even washing her face, felt like betrayal. So the clothespins became a way of saying: I’m still here. You’re still with me. I see you.

I didn’t know what to say, but I listened. I think that was enough.

Over the next few months, our friendship deepened. Shane didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did, but trusted us. He was in love. Busy with work. Planning their one-year trip to Oaxaca.

Then, one night, it all cracked.

It was a Sunday. Shane had gone to visit his parents, and I came home late from a friend’s birthday. Priya was in the kitchen again, reading a cookbook.

I made a dumb joke about clothespins being her version of burning incense. She laughed, but it was a short, tight sound.

Then she said it. Quietly: “I think I’m in the wrong relationship.”

I blinked. “With Shane?”

She nodded. “He’s kind. I thought that would be enough.”

I didn’t say anything. My throat tightened.

“I keep trying to love him the way he deserves. But I feel like I’m performing all the time. Like I can’t breathe.”

I stayed silent, scared to move.

Then she looked me dead in the eye. “Do you feel it too?”

I wanted to lie. To pretend I didn’t. But the truth had been there for weeks. The way I watched her stir her tea. The way she’d wait for my reaction to every story. The way we paused just a little too long when we said goodbye.

“I do,” I said, barely audible.

She exhaled. Looked relieved. Looked terrified.

Then, just like that, she stood up. “I need time,” she said. “I need to figure this out.”

And she left. Not just the apartment—she went back to her place. Stopped staying over. Stopped texting. Shane noticed.

After two weeks, he asked me, “Is something going on with Priya?”

I didn’t lie. But I didn’t tell the whole truth either. I said she was having doubts. That she didn’t feel ready for the next step. That I didn’t know what was going to happen.

He was gutted.

He cried one night in his room. I heard it. And I hated myself for being part of the reason.

Time passed. Priya and Shane broke up officially. She told him it wasn’t working, that she needed to be alone. He didn’t blame me—but I think a part of him knew. We stopped being close after that. He moved out in May.

I stayed.

And a few weeks later, Priya came back.

She didn’t knock. Just came in, left a clothespin on the sink, and said, “I don’t want to run anymore.”

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t make some grand declaration. We sat on the floor, backs against the fridge, holding mugs of chai.

She told me she still talks to her brother when she showers. That she thinks he’d like me. That she knows I didn’t cause the breakup—but I might be part of the healing.

Over the next year, we built something quiet and real. Not perfect. But honest.

There are still clothespins in the bathroom. One’s red now, one’s yellow. Sometimes I add one too. A little nod to the things we carry and the people we miss.

I still think about Shane. I still feel bad. But I’ve learned that guilt and joy can live in the same room.

Life’s messy. People are complicated. And sometimes, the smallest things—a plastic clip, a soft confession—can change the direction of everything.

So if you’re ever standing in your bathroom, confused by something that doesn’t make sense, ask. You might be opening a door you didn’t know was there.

Thanks for reading. If this hit home, like or share it—someone else might need to hear it too.