At first, it seemed like a tech issue—just a smart scale acting up. But when the numbers kept shifting only while I was at work, I realized it wasn’t a glitch. It was a warning. And the truth waiting behind it would change everything.
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. I work HR at a media company and spend most of my time dodging Zoom calls and drinking reheated coffee. Our apartment is a one-bedroom with squeaky floors and a bathroom so small I can brush my teeth and pee at the same time if I angle myself right. But it was ours. Or so I thought.
We’d been dating for two years, living together for just over one. He’s easy to live with—quiet, folds his laundry, and picks 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. Still sweaty from the gym, I stepped on our smart scale while brushing my teeth. The number blinked: 159 pounds. Not unusual. I’d had Thai food and wine the night before. 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. I changed the batteries, moved it to the hallway, then the bedroom. Same thing. Later at the gym, I weighed 158.4. “What the hell?” I whispered.
When I told Theo, he gave me that calm, annoyingly rational look. “Babe, you’re overthinking. 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,” he shrugged. “Maybe it’s the app. Or bad Bluetooth. Tech stuff.”
I didn’t argue then, but I couldn’t let it go. For the next two weeks, I became obsessed. Every morning at home: 130 to 131. Every evening at the gym: 158 to 160. I Googled everything: “sudden weight loss and gain,” “weight scale malfunction.” At 2 a.m., I was deep in Reddit threads while Theo rolled over and grunted, “Seriously, babe, go to sleep.”
I wanted to believe him, but my gut whispered something else. The next day at work, I pulled up the scale’s app data. What I saw made my stomach clench. The 130-pound readings 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 the data wasn’t static; it was trending down slowly, like someone tracking their progress. Someone else’s weight.
I sat frozen at my desk. That wasn’t a glitch. That was a pattern. A person. Someone was using my scale while I was gone. Casually. Later that night, I pulled Theo into the kitchen. “Theo, do you ever weigh yourself when I’m not home?” He gave me a weird look. “No? Why would I?”
“Have any of your friends ever come over while I’m at work?”
He paused. “Sometimes. Ryan dropped off my jacket once. Why?”
“No reason,” I said. But I couldn’t sleep. The next morning, I emailed customer support. Their reply was simple and brutal: “Large variance usually indicates multiple users. The system auto-assigns based on patterns.” My blood went cold. Someone else was in my apartment, in my bathroom, stepping on my scale.
I didn’t scream. I smiled when he handed me coffee. I told him I had a meeting and would be back late. I even kissed him goodbye. But inside, I was making a plan. While Theo was in the shower, I turned on push notifications for every weigh-in. I checked the paired devices list: my iPhone, Theo’s Pixel, and a third entry—just “iPhone.” No name. A ghost.
I renamed my profile: “THIS IS GRACE’S SCALE.” All caps. Then, I changed the Wi-Fi password. The scale would disconnect until someone reconnected it with the new credentials. Then, I waited.
On Thursday, halfway through a budget report, my phone buzzed. “New weigh-in: 131.4 lbs. Time: 2:17 p.m.” My heart jumped into my throat. There it was. I stood up, grabbed my coat, and told my manager I had a migraine.
I took a cab, my hands shaking. I didn’t use my keys; I wanted the door unlocked. I pushed it open quietly. The apartment smelled like a perfume I didn’t own—something floral and expensive. I walked toward the bedroom. The door was ajar.
I saw a woman. She was sitting on the edge of our bed, wearing one of Theo’s oversized t-shirts. She was pretty, with long dark hair and the kind of athletic build that explained the 130 pounds. She was holding her phone, looking confused—likely trying to figure out why the scale wouldn’t sync. Theo was in the bathroom, humming.
“Is the Wi-Fi down?” she called out.
“I changed the password,” I said, my voice steady despite the roar in my ears.
She jumped, nearly dropping her phone. Theo froze, the humming stopping instantly. He stepped into the room, a towel around his waist. The blood drained from his face. “Grace. You’re… you’re home early.”
“The scale sent me a notification,” I said, holding up my phone. “I renamed the profile. Did you see it?”
The woman looked between us, realization dawning. “Theo? Who is this?”
“I’m the person who pays the rent,” I said. “And you’re the person who’s been using my bathroom for the last three weeks.”
She stood up, grabbing her jeans. “He told me he lived alone. He said he was looking for a roommate.”
“He has a roommate,” I said. “Me. His girlfriend of two years.”
The woman started dressing frantically. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“I know. Not your fault,” I nodded. To Theo, she said, “Lose my number,” and walked out without another word.
Theo turned to me. “You planned this? You’re spying on me now?”
“I’m protecting myself,” I said. “Because I couldn’t trust you to tell the truth.” I handed him an envelope. Inside was a list of his things, already packed in the hallway. “You have 30 days to pick up the rest. By appointment only. The lease is in my name. The locks are being changed at four.”
“You’re throwing this away over a misunderstanding?” he scoffed.
“A misunderstanding? There’s a literal Bluetooth log of your double life. Spare me.”
“You’re making a mistake,” he tried again.
“No,” I said calmly. “I made the mistake of trusting you.”
He left with a duffel bag and a look that used to make me doubt myself. But not this time. My friend Rachel was waiting downstairs with wine and takeout. She opened her arms, and I sank into them. “You did well,” she whispered.
That night, the other woman messaged me: “I’m sorry.” I replied: “Me too. Take care of yourself.” We both blocked him. I never learned her name, but that moment felt healing.
Now, the scale sits exactly where it always did. But it doesn’t “glitch” anymore. No mystery weigh-ins. Just me. Funny thing about accuracy: when the extra weight leaves your life, everything else starts to measure right. I don’t need a notification to tell me what’s true in my own home.
How many little signs and gut feelings do we brush off before the truth finally screams loud enough to break through? Is it really that easy to miss the obvious, or do we choose not to see it because seeing it means everything has to change?
