"The rental market is worse than dating."

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.

All the rejection and heartbreak and emotional turmoil and six failed relationships rental applications had been leading to this pivotal moment when we finally found The One. I had my heart set on an Easter full of packing and moving and, naturally, eating.

What has gone so wrong that two people in their mid 20s, both employed full time with good references and the money in their bank account to pay the bloody rent each week are forced to deal with so much rejection? We offered them more money than they were asking, which I assume is the real estate equivalent of super liking someone on Tinder.

But what did we get? Crickets.

Somehow we’ve become real estate pariahs and we can’t work out why.

I need a copy of ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’ for the real estate market thrown at my face as I’m forced to pick up the broken pieces of my relationship with an apartment that was never mine and told once more that it’s not me that’s the problem.

As for my plans for Easter, I guess it’s time to to check what times this weekend’s inspections are and purchase some consolation homewares from Kmart.

Yes, it’s getting to the point where I might cry in the toilets at work if I get rejected again. Why did you last cry at work?