Decorating Like I’m Expecting a Meet-Cute (Because I Am)
When I first moved to Adelaide, I… didn’t try very hard. My house was cute, sure, but it wasn’t giving main character energy. It was more like supporting cast with a Pinterest board full of unrealised potential. Then, the “will they won’t they” of 18 years (yes, eighteen, your honour) said he was coming to visit. And suddenly, I was a woman possessed. Fairy lights were strung. Prints were framed. Rugs were fluffed. I decorated like the climax of our slow-burn arc depended on it. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
Did that visit go well? Emotionally speaking, no. Trauma-wise? Yes, in the sense that I absolutely gained some. But my throw pillows were on point and my hallway looked like a scene from a romantic drama where someone gets kissed against a wall. So who’s the real winner here? Not my nervous system, but definitely my lounge room.
The heartbreak didn’t last, but the home styling obsession did. And when I broke up with my ex-boyfriend-turned-bestie (a plot twist I did not see coming), I took one look at my bedroom and thought: no. She needs a glow-up. Not for him. But to remind myself that I can make something beautiful without anyone else’s input. That, and I suspected we’d get back together, and I wanted him to see how stunning the place looked without him.
Manifestation, But Make It Interior Design
Now I’ve landed in Brisbane, and I’m bringing that same chaotic, delulu-meets-determined energy into every corner of my new home. My rental isn’t just a house. It’s a set. It’s a stage. It’s the backdrop to the love story I haven’t lived yet, but fully expect to. You think I bought a balcony settee for the sake of practicality? No, babe. I bought them for midnight wine chats and highly questionable shenanigans with someone I’m not emotionally stable enough to date but will absolutely fantasise about.
Fake plants that Lulu can’t eat? Essential. Fairy lights in every room like I’m one emotional montage away from kissing someone in the rain? Non-negotiable. My sheets? Fresh, silky, and fragranced within an inch of their fibres, because I refuse to be caught off guard. If love shows up, I want it to know I’m ready.
Some people decorate for guests. I decorate for the ghosts of potential lovers. For the version of me who gets kissed on the forehead while making tea. For the girl who wants to sit on her couch and feel like the world is about to change, just because the lighting is warm and the music is good. I decorate like I’m manifesting company. Because I am.
Home as a Spell, a Shrine, a Soft Place to Land
Here’s the thing about decorating when you’re delulu and self-aware: it’s a kind of spellwork. My flat is an altar to the life I want. I hang prints not because I need wall art, but because they remind me of who I am when I’m not spiralling. I buy cute mugs for hot beverages I never finish, just in case someone notices how adorable I am mid-sip.
I believe that making your space beautiful invites beauty in. That comfy blankets and mood lighting attract intimacy. That a clean kitchen might not guarantee someone will fall in love with me, but it will make me feel like I deserve good things. Because I do. Even if my ex’s playlist still haunts my Spotify algorithm and I cried over a meme yesterday.
And yes, Lulu absolutely judges my design choices. He side-eyes every non-edible plant with disdain. He sits on my newly made bed with the kind of scepticism only a cat can deliver. But even his little grumpy face can’t ruin the vibe. My house is a whole mood. It’s soft. It’s hopeful. It’s chaotic in the most intentional way.
When You Don’t Have the Love Story (Yet), Build the Set Anyway
I decorate like I’m about to fall in love. Because one day, I will. And when that person walks through my door, I want them to feel it. I want them to know they’ve entered a space crafted with care, whimsy, and possibly unhinged levels of romantic idealism. I want them to feel like the story has already started, and they’re just catching up.
But here’s the secret: I’m not really decorating for them. I’m decorating for me. For the version of myself that deserves softness, even when she’s alone. For the girl who lights candles just to eat cheese and crackers on a Tuesday. For the woman who knows her worth, even when her duvet is full of crumbs and dreams.
Because the truth is, whether love arrives or not, my space still holds me. It comforts me. It reflects me back to myself in fairy-lit fragments. And that matters. That counts. I’m not waiting for life to begin when someone loves me. I’m living it now. In a rental. With fake plants. And a cat who hates my fairy lights.
Decorating for the Plot Twist
Listen. Being delulu isn’t a crime. It’s a lifestyle. And I’ve decided that every cushion, every mood lamp, every nonsensical piece of balcony furniture is part of the plot. I’m preparing the set for Act II. I’m queuing the soundtrack. I’m fluffing the pillows just in case someone worth cuddling shows up.
My house isn’t just cute. It’s charged. With energy. With intention. With a sense of romance so strong it might actually summon something. Not because I need someone to complete it, but because it’s already so full of story that adding another character just makes sense.
So no, I’m not just a girl who hung fairy lights in her rental. I’m a girl who strung up hope and refused to believe that softness wasn’t worth creating, even if no one else saw it. I’m a woman who lit a candle for herself. Who washed her sheets and smoothed them out, whispering, “one day.” And until then? I’ll be on my balcony. Alone. With snacks. Living the plot like it’s already unfolding.
We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity
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