One Week In
It had only been a week.
It felt like longer.
A lot longer.
I stood in the middle of the living room — or what used to be the living room — and slowly turned in a full circle.
The wallpaper was gone.
Completely gone.
In its place were bare, uneven walls — patches of plaster showing through where the glue had refused to come off clean.
Dust still clung to the floor, no matter how many times I swept.
And the kitchen…
Well.
The kitchen barely existed anymore.
Where cabinets once hung, there were now empty spaces and exposed fittings. The counters had been ripped out days ago, leaving behind a room that looked more like a construction site than somewhere you’d actually cook.
At the time, it had felt like progress.
Now?
Now it just felt… slightly unhinged.
I rubbed my face with both hands and let out a slow breath.
“What have I actually done?”
The answer was simple.
A lot.
Too much, maybe.
I’d started with one wall.
Then another.
Then I’d convinced myself it made sense to just “do it all at once.”
Somewhere along the way, I’d stripped the entire house — every wall except the bathroom — leaving behind nothing but bare plaster and a much bigger job than I’d planned for.
Which, in theory, sounded productive.
In reality?
It meant I now had an entire open-plan space that wasn’t finished at all.
I walked over to the spot where the kitchen counter used to be and set down the takeaway bag I’d just brought home.
Again.
I’d lost count of how many takeaway meals I’d had this week.
Partly because I couldn’t cook.
Not properly, anyway.
There was no kitchen left — no counters, no cupboards, nowhere to even prep a meal. I could have picked up a microwave, but without a fridge there was nowhere to store anything.
So takeaway had become the default.
Again.
I pulled out my phone, glancing at my bank balance for what felt like the tenth time that day.
It had dropped.
Again.
A small, uncomfortable knot formed in my stomach.
Right.
That.
I leaned back against the wall — the very wall I’d spent two days stripping — and stared across the space.
Two choices.
Finish the living room first…
or fix the kitchen.
Comfort or function.
A place to sit…
or a place to eat.
I let out a quiet laugh.
“Why did I think I could just… wing this?”
My gaze drifted toward the four boxes in the corner.
Still there.
Still unpacked.
Like I’d been so focused on changing the house, I hadn’t stopped to actually live in it.
A week in… and it still didn’t feel like home.
Not yet.
But it could.
If I didn’t mess this up.
Later that evening, I found myself sitting on my sleeping bag in what was technically my bedroom.
The walls were bare here too.
Same as everywhere else.
I pulled my phone into my hands, opening a new tab. My thumb hovered over the search bar for a second longer than it needed to.
Jobs near me.
The words felt heavier than they should have.
Necessary.
I exhaled slowly and typed them in anyway.
Because as much as I wanted to pretend this was just a cozy little renovation story…
It wasn’t.
This was real now.
I lowered my phone into my lap and glanced around the room.
The bare walls.
The sleeping bag beneath me.
The quiet.
Then my thoughts drifted back to the rest of the house.
The kitchen.
The living room.
I needed to choose.
Because I couldn’t do both.
Not anymore.
Between the Pages & Pixels 