May 14th

Dear Journal,

I often wonder if anyone else’s life is as crazy as mine. My parents had a blueprint for how life should be: get a good education, land a well-paid job, find a nice girl, get married, have kids. It all seemed so simple and predictable. But none of that is panning out. The degree never did me any good, my job isn't in a career path I want, and while Annisa fits the bill perfectly, marriage and kids aren't exactly in our future.

Instead, I’m utterly lost, stuck in a prison of designer dresses and ludicrously tall heels I can’t walk without. I came to Jakarta looking for a new life, and I guess I found one. It’s crazy to think I boarded a plane in London only three months ago as plain old David, but when I leave for Paris in a few days, I’ll be doing so as the glamorous Fifi LeRue.

It terrifies me how quickly I’ve adapted to this. And as hard as it is to admit, it isn’t actually that bad. There, I said it.

Don't get me wrong, I still don’t enjoy the day-to-day reality of living as a woman. I hate the restrictive clothes, the careful way I have to move my hands and feet, and the constant pressure to look pretty and put together. But alongside those challenges are genuinely enjoyable moments, like my bond with Annisa. It feels like I’ve known her far longer than I actually have, and I’ve come to rely on her almost like a sister.

The way people treat me also has its perks. Small acts of chivalry, like fetching drinks or opening doors—nobody ever went out of their way to do those things for the old me. Then there’s Kevin. He's fun to be around, and had we met under different circumstances, I’m sure we’d have been great friends.

Saying all that, I know things have to change. Even if I don’t know exactly how yet, in Paris, I have to find a way of getting home to London and back to my real life.

I tried to put the wheels in motion today. I invited Kevin over, planning to break things off before they got further out of control. It was supposed to be a goodbye, but it didn’t quite work out as I planned.

I chose an oversized sweatshirt to look casual, but looking back now, pairing it with a short, pleated skirt and my new birthday heels probably wasn’t the right choice. I guess Annisa’s fashion advice has changed the way I think—the blue of the heels matched the design on my sweater perfectly, and the skirt just tied everything together.

We sat in the living room chatting until the Paris trip came up. That’s when I tried to tell him he shouldn’t wait for me, that things could never be what he wanted. He looked so confused and hurt. He told me he didn’t expect anything, that he just enjoyed spending time with me and his life would be worse off without me in it. In that moment, I should have been firmer. But hearing him say such nice things, I just couldn’t bring myself to be mean.

He left with a hug and a kiss after I promised to text him from time to time. I remember sitting on the sofa for a long while afterward, looking down at my folded legs—all smooth and girly—annoyed at myself for not having the guts to do the right thing.

He’s going to hate me when I just vanish, but he'll survive. He’ll get over it. I have to stop worrying about his feelings and focus on myself now. I need to be brave and do what needs to be done.

May 16th

Dear Journal,

Well, I made it to Paris. And what an absolutely crazy day it was.

I left the apartment early this morning with more suitcases than any sane person would need for a two-week trip. The journey to the airport was filled with Annisa’s chirpy voice as she could barely contain her excitement. Me, on the other hand—I just sat there silently, the fear of the unknown consuming me.

The first hurdle was check-in—handing over an ID that says I’m a nineteen-year-old French woman. I was half-convinced it wouldn't work and that I’d be dragged off by security and interrogated. It turns out I needn’t have worried—the passport is the real deal! A relief at the time, but now it has me wondering exactly how well-connected Annisa’s father must be.

The rest of the process was easy enough, except for when I had to put my heels in the security tray and tiptoe through the scanner. I gritted my teeth, ducked my head, and moved as quickly as I could while trying to ignore all the puzzled looks I was getting.

Once onboard, my nerves calmed a little, especially when I realised we’d be travelling first class. I’ve never experienced anything like that before, though knowing Annisa, I shouldn't have expected anything less. Between the seat reclining all the way back so I could actually sleep, the complimentary drinks, and food better than most restaurants I’ve been to, the sheer luxury of it all provided a welcome distraction from what was coming.

I don’t remember much of the airport in Paris—only a feeling of relief at having arrived without incident, followed quickly by the anxiety of knowing that the difficult part was just beginning. I’m in a city I’ve never been to before, and as much as my French has improved recently, can I really play tour guide without a local calling me out in front of Annisa?

I’d already cleared one hurdle by telling Annisa that none of my family lived here anymore, having moved to London a year prior while I stayed behind for university. It’s another lie to add to the pile—and she was so disappointed about not meeting them that she's already suggesting we travel to London next time.

Reality hit when I clicked out of our taxi, tired after a long day of travel. What struck me immediately was how cold Paris was compared to Jakarta. I was so underdressed for a chilly spring day in my light beige tweed miniskirt and a matching little jacket over a simple cream blouse. Annisa rushed inside to get someone to help with our luggage, leaving me alone on the street, standing tall in my Biancas. My bare legs were covered in goosebumps, and I couldn't stop shivering while I stood staring at the imposing, historic architecture lining the avenue next to a mountain of bags.

It all seemed so unreal. To be in Paris as Fifi. It somehow felt scarier than being in Jakarta. There, I’d followed Annisa’s lead. Here, I was supposed to be the expert—the local girl in charge.

Thankfully, my existential crisis was short-lived. The heavy glass doors swung open, and Annisa re-emerged with a uniformed bellhop in tow. He made quick work of our luggage, leaving me to focus entirely on not twisting an ankle on the pavement as I hurried after them into the warmth of the lobby.

Moments later, I was teetering in front of the polished marble front desk, staring wide-eyed at the young, impeccably groomed clerk behind the counter.

"Bonjour, bienvenue à Paris, Mademoiselle," (Hello, welcome to Paris, Miss), he said, offering a professional smile.

I forced a smile in return and tried not to panic. Despite all the practice, with my dark hair falling in soft waves around the swell of my padded chest and my perfectly manicured nails clutching the leather strap of my tan handbag tight to my side, I felt ridiculous. I squeaked out a shaky "Merci. Nous venons nous enregistrer, nous avons une réservation au nom d'Annisa Wijaya" (Thank you. We are checking in, we have a reservation under the name Annisa Wijaya), bracing myself. I waited for the confusion, or worse, for him to laugh at my pathetic accent.

But he didn’t bat an eye. Instead, he looked at his computer screen and asked smoothly, "Bien sûr, mademoiselle, puis-je avoir vos passeports, s'il vous plaît?" (Of course, miss, can I have your passports please?)

I swallowed the lump in my throat, loosened my death grip on my bag, and handed him our passports.

The moment the suite door clicked shut, I let out a long, shuddering breath, feeling like I’d been holding it in since we left Jakarta. I’d passed my first real test, giving me a welcome confidence boost. Maybe I can do this, I thought. I just need to stay focused and act like I belong.

We never ventured back out into the night—the jet lag was too much. We spent the evening wrapped in the hotel's plush robes, ordering room service and eating dinner by the window as the city lights flickered to life outside.

As I watched the traffic move along the avenue below, I felt a heavy sense of anticipation. I’d survived the arrival, but I knew the stakes would be much higher tomorrow. I’ll be navigating Paris as Fifi, trying to convince the world—and especially Annisa—that I belong here. I hope I don’t mess up.

May 17th

Dear Journal,

As I write this, I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes open. The pencil feels heavy in my hand and my whole lower body throbs with an aching exhaustion.

We did a lot today, and it feels a lot later than 8pm. I haven’t even eaten dinner yet.

The day started with me tottering around the hotel’s buffet breakfast. I’d hoped that with Paris being known as a city of high fashion, I wouldn’t stand out as much here in my heels as I did in Jakarta. The stares I got as I clattered about on my Lady Peep Spike Louboutins told me otherwise. I’m going to stand out here too. Oh well, I’m used to the looks by now.

And it’s just as well, as stepping out of the hotel onto the streets of Paris in a pleated miniskirt—my long hair curled and my makeup done to perfection—would have terrified me not long ago. Don’t get me wrong, it still felt incredibly strange to be presenting myself as a woman, but I wasn’t concerned about people seeing through the disguise; instead, I was more focused on the weather. Annisa felt the chill too, which meant only one thing: we needed to go shopping.

By early afternoon, we were back at the hotel with our haul—most of it hers. But I still ended up with a fur jacket, two dresses, a skirt, three tops, and two pairs of shoes—which probably gives you an idea of how much she bought.

Exiting the hotel for the second time today, with my legs snug in a pair of black tights and my new fur jacket keeping the chill at bay, I felt much warmer.

From there, our Paris adventure began for real. We walked for hours across the uneven cobblestone streets—definitely not designed for 6-inch stilettos. Taking in the wrought-iron balconies, the towering limestone facades, and the chaotic café patios spilling onto the sidewalks, I led the way, inventing stories of imaginary times I’d been to those places before, while taking Annisa to 'my favourite places' that I had meticulously researched online. As you can imagine, there were some wrong turns, some letdowns, and a few awkward moments when someone said something too fast in French and I didn’t understand.

Somehow, I smiled through it all. Annisa didn’t seem to notice my bumbling act of being a local and appeared to genuinely enjoy herself. So, all in all, I’d say the day was a success.

Tomorrow, there’s going to be lots more walking as we visit some of the famous sights of the city. But first, we’re off to dinner. And about time, as I’m starving.

May 18th

Dear Journal,

I’m completely drained again after another day of tackling the cobblestones of Paris in towering stilettos. We ticked off some of the most famous sights today. We took in the chaotic Arc de Triomphe, watching cars whiz around and somehow avoid colliding. We walked along the Seine to soak in the tranquillity. We even ventured inside Notre Dame—we didn't find Quasimodo, but we definitely heard the bells.

After a delicious chicken salad for lunch, it was time for the main attraction—the Eiffel Tower. But we had to detour back to the hotel to get changed first, as Annisa had this idea in her head that we needed to go fully glam for the photos.

The taxi dropped us off much further away than I would have liked, which was entirely my fault. The driver kept talking to me in French, and in my panic, I just told him we’d walk the rest of the way. In my defence, I could see the Eiffel Tower out the window and assumed it was close. Something a true local would know, I guess.

I spun a quick lie for Annisa, claiming there was a local bakery she had to try. I managed to find one, and the pastry I bought wasn’t half bad. A massive stroke of luck.

So, after trudging for almost an hour in my new shoes—black Charlotte Olympia pumps with a funky gold platform and, of course, a stilt-like heel—we finally reached the gardens. With my shoes thoroughly broken in, we found the perfect spot with the tower in the background and the photo shoot began.

People glanced over as I pranced and twirled in my fitted white minidress with its tiered black satin hem. I'd left my jacket on a nearby bench, but with my legs encased in tights and my arms covered by the dress's thick sleeves, I was warm enough. I tried to look happy and carefree, forcing myself to act exactly how I thought Fifi would in this situation. As self-conscious as I felt posing like that, Annisa’s beaming smile told me I was pulling it off. I actually started to relax. That is, until a group of men loitering close by started whistling and calling out comments. Instantly, I went from feeling silly to vulnerable.

I was about to suggest we find somewhere else when Annisa did something totally unexpected. She marched right up to the men and exploded, telling them exactly how childish and disgusting their behaviour was, and that real men didn't act like that.

They looked absolutely speechless and legitimately frightened before they muttered apologies and practically ran away. I made a mental note right then: even though she’s only five-foot-three, Annisa is a force of nature you don’t want to get on the wrong side of. With the men dealt with, she skipped right back to me, unfazed, and declared she wanted to go up the tower. I just smiled and nodded.

Of course, things weren’t that simple: you have to book in advance. When a young security guard stopped us to explain this—another fact any true Parisian would have known—I almost lost it, angry at myself for letting Annisa down.

Luckily, Annisa stepped in to solve the problem in a way only cute, rich girls like her can. She started twirling her hair and shuffling her feet, asking the guard if there was any way he could make an exception since she’d travelled all the way from Jakarta just for this. The guy was putty in her hands, especially when she pulled out a wad of 100-euro notes and slowly tucked them into his pocket.

The view of Paris from the top was breathtaking, but I was honestly just as captivated watching Annisa dance around with joy as she snapped pictures. She’s just so full of life and positivity. Nothing fazes her. Standing up there in the Parisian sky in my cute dress and heels, I couldn't help but think that maybe I should try to be a bit more like her.