Having been in a relationship for the last two years, it’s been a while since I was unexpectedly ghosted.
But there I was on Monday, manically checking my phone every five minutes willing a man I had known for two days to ring me.
I sent him a few emails peppered with witty banter. I asked my boyfriend to contact him too, hoping our collective enthusiasm would quicken his response as the three of us prepared to embark on a beautiful journey together as tenants and property manager.
Josh prepared me for the worst as I scrolled through the listing on realestate.com.au yet again, bookmarking Kmart links and Googling removalist companies, telling me not to get my hopes up as we waited for the phone to ring.
We’d been down this road before. A weekend of inspections along with 40 or so other disenfranchised couples looking for a one bedroom apartment that doesn’t look like it was once the scene of a crime.
Of course, the process itself is rife with disappointment. You turn up to an apartment that has been advertised as a one bedroom plus study to find a glorified studio with a built in desk with hordes of people lining up armed with a bag of money to throw at the agent.
We’ve been looking for our diamond in the rough for a while and last weekend we found a unicorn. There was no mould. No rust. No noticeable signs that a homicide had recently taken place on the premises. It was down the road from our favourite pizza place and in walking distance to a train station.