By the third, he actually laughed.
So I stopped asking.
Every single day, his tea bags came sailing over the railing.
One usually appeared around seven in the morning.
Another often followed sometime around nine at night.
His routine became so consistent that I barely needed to check the clock.
At first, I honestly believed it was an accident.
The first tea bag landed near one of my flowerpots. I picked it up, tossed it into the trash, and forgot about it.
But a week or two later, I stepped outside and found another one lying directly on a clean white towel I had hung over a chair to dry.
A large brown mark had already soaked into the fabric.
That was when I decided to speak with him.
I went upstairs and knocked on apartment 4B.
When he opened the door, I held up the tea bag.
“Does this belong to you?”
His expression immediately became apologetic.
“Oh, wow. Did that fall from my balcony?”
“It isn’t the first one.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I’m sorry. I’m half asleep in the mornings. Sometimes I finish my tea outside and toss the bag without thinking.”
He seemed genuinely embarrassed.
“It won’t happen again.”
I thanked him and went downstairs.
For a moment, I even wondered whether I had made too much of something minor.
The following morning answered that question.
Another wet tea bag was sitting on my balcony.
Still, I said nothing.
I waited almost three weeks.
I had lived in the building for eleven years and had always tried to be an easygoing neighbor.
I wasn’t interested in creating tension over something that could easily be fixed.
Then one evening, I was sitting inside when I heard a soft *plop* outside.
Another tea bag.
This one had landed directly on the cushion of my favorite balcony chair.
By the time I picked it up, the fabric was already stained.
That finally pushed me upstairs again.
He opened the door.
“You’re still throwing tea bags onto my balcony,” I said.
He shrugged.
“It’s just tea.”
“It has already ruined a towel. Now my chair cushion is stained.”
Instead of apologizing, he leaned against the doorway.
“Well, you live underneath me. Things fall. That’s part of apartment life.”
“They aren’t falling. You’re throwing them.”
He smiled.
“Look, you should probably be grateful it’s only tea.”
I stared at him.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He gave another little laugh.
“Could be worse.”
Then he closed the door.
I remained in the hallway for several seconds.
That conversation bothered me more than the tea bags themselves.
For eleven years, I had tried to be the kind of neighbor people could depend on.
I watered plants when people traveled.
Accepted deliveries.
Looked after pets.
Signed for packages.
I had even collected this man’s parcels throughout the previous winter whenever he wasn’t home.
Yet he couldn’t manage the basic courtesy of using his own trash can.
Standing outside his apartment, I realized something else.
Getting angry wouldn’t accomplish anything.
If I shouted or caused a scene, he could simply tell everyone that the woman downstairs had completely overreacted because of a few harmless tea bags.
I wasn’t going to give him that opportunity.
Instead, I decided to give him one final chance.
If nothing landed on my balcony the following morning, I would forget the entire situation.
At exactly 7:04 a.m., I heard a familiar sound.
*Plop.*
I stepped outside.
There it was.
A freshly used tea bag sitting beside my flowerpots.
I looked at it for several seconds.
Then, strangely, I smiled.
I went back inside.
Made myself coffee.
Sat at the kitchen table.
And started thinking.
By the time I finished my cup, I knew exactly what I was going to do.
Nothing destructive.
Nothing that would get me into trouble.
And definitely no screaming match in the hallway.
I simply needed a way to make him understand that what seemed insignificant from his balcony was becoming someone else’s problem below.
It took me most of that afternoon to get everything ready.
The following morning, I woke up early.
By 6:55, I was already sitting outside.
Coffee in one hand.
My phone within reach.
And absolutely no intention of knocking on apartment 4B for a fourth time.
At 7:03, I heard movement above me.
Then his balcony door slid open.
I waited.
A minute later, his hand appeared beyond the railing.
Something small dangled between his fingers.
The tea bag dropped.
But this time, instead of sighing and throwing it away like I had done countless times before, I was prepared.
Because after three polite requests, several stained belongings, and one smug warning to “be grateful,” my upstairs neighbor was finally about to discover why I had spent the previous afternoon getting ready.
The rest of the story is in the first comment. 
I asked my upstairs neighbor three different times to stop tossing used tea bags onto my balcony. The first time, he apologized. The second time, he acted like it was no big deal.
