I have fallen in love with my rented apartment. What a thing to say in this economy. Nevertheless, it’s true. From the first moment I stood in the ramshackle kitchen with its 1970s ironwork, beneath the glitter-spiked popcorn ceiling, I have felt that I’m finally home. Of course, like all the previous homes of my life, this one was only ever going to be temporary. I signed a short lease, expecting to have a brief sojourn by the sea before real life took me back.

But what is real life these days? Isn’t it increasingly the case that the condition of the everyday is accommodating the unexpected? And so, the apartment – slated for redevelopment pending permit issues, Covid lockdowns, supply chains and now interest rate hikes – is still, unexpectedly, accommodating me.

My apartment is what Deborah Levy describes in Real Estate as a loving house – it “traces the ritual of all who lived there before me”. I can see, for instance, that someone grew old and perhaps even died here. There are guide rails in the staircase, the toilet and shower. The garden, hacked back for rental, still bears the bounty of decades of nurturing care. A fig tree sawn to a stump bursts forth with juicy leaves and tiny fruit. The soil of a garden bed yields the biggest basil crop I’ve ever seen. At the backs of the cupboards I find ancient port and pickles, their jars coated with the dust of a durable life.

My love for this apartment has deepened with time. In the beginning we were all floorboard picnics and Sunday afternoons spent just the two of us. When we were locked down together, we became each other’s entire world. I couldn’t imagine anywhere I’d rather be imprisoned. Unable to leave the 80s bathroom – all pink and blue – the ocean glimpses, the frosted glass light fixtures, I set my novel here. I attend to each feature with the full force of love. You know the feeling: when every piece of the beloved is a miracle. Sure, the windows rattle in their sills, the floorboards slope and the roof leaks, but my beloved is beautiful beyond fault, see?

Now that we’ve made it through the pandemic, love has settled into an easier kinship. On the street, modern houses are getting laid noisily on brand new foundations. These aren’t loving houses though, not yet and perhaps not ever, I think scornfully. Young families move in around us, fill their garages with sparkling sports equipment, their driveways with shiny cars. I draw the blinds. My apartment doesn’t need to see that. My apartment deserves love, yes, but also respect. To have sheltered decades of life while remaining strong and true: that is the real accomplishment that will never be noted in a development plan.

I sometimes fantasise about owning my apartment. I dream of how I’d lovingly repair each crack and ding. The coats of paint and refinished floorboards. In these fantasies the apartment and I are somehow engaged in this renovation project together. We are newlyweds, plucky and determined. There’s no need to talk about the cost.

But other times, when I have occasion to dwell in some other abode – visiting a friend, say, or picking up a secondhand heater from a local seller – my eyes wander greedily over unfamiliar fixtures, clean walls and well-hung doors. I think, yeah, I could be happy living here. Perhaps it’s good to be realistic about love at my age and income bracket, particularly when there’s no real shot at forever.

It’s forever for now, though. My real estate agent isn’t sure when the redevelopment will begin. Maybe next month, maybe next year, she tells me, but she can’t offer a new lease or fix the shower. A classic romantic dilemma: doomed love or dull security. Though when I look at the news or listen to stories of friends facing $200-a-week rent increases or moving into each other’s garages, I’m reminded that security is contingent and sometimes less dull than you’d hope for.

Given the obsession with home ownership and my generation’s often tragically evoked inability to embrace our housing destiny, perhaps this is a timely Australian love story. But I’m not complaining. I’m housed! And I love my loving home, can afford to stay here as long as we are both still standing. In this economy, that’s love you hold on to for everything it’s worth.

• Why We Are Here by Briohny Doyle is out now through Vintage Australia