I had been so focused on my frustration—on feeling wronged—that I never thought the culprit might be someone desperate rather than careless.
I approached her later, guilt gnawing at me. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I just… I couldn’t afford groceries this week, and I didn’t think it would matter if I used a splash.”
In that moment, the toothpaste prank felt monstrous. My pettiness had been born of inconvenience; her actions were born of survival.
I offered to buy her lunch, and that became a quiet ritual between us. Over sandwiches and coffee, we talked about life, about struggle, and about the quiet masks people wear to hide it.
The oat milk? It never disappeared again—not because I scared off a thief, but because I chose compassion over resentment.
Sometimes the smallest battles we fight reveal something bigger: that kindness feeds us far more than vengeance ever can.
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