May 19th

Dear Journal,

If I never see another cobblestone or polished marble floor as long as I live, it will be too soon.

I am writing this from bed, and my legs are throbbing so badly I can actually feel my pulse in my toes. Today involved more sightseeing and in my desperation to play the knowledgeable local, I created an itinerary that completely backfired on me. I thought starting at Sacré-Cœur would be a relaxing start to the day, completely oblivious to the fact that the basilica sits at the top of what feels like a million steps.

Even though I might be an expert at walking in six-inch heels by now—mostly because I literally have no other choice with my feet permanently locked en pointe—those steps still took it out of me. Annisa felt it too. She didn’t say anything but I could almost read her mind saying, “why didn’t you warn me it was going to be this steep.” But linking arms and with plenty of breaks, we conquered the stairs. Was the view from the top worth it? Not today, on a chilly day with grey clouds hovering low in the Parisian sky.

From there, I navigated us to a café near Palais Garnier. I managed to confidently march us in the right direction, acting as though I’d walked that route a hundred times before. The plan was to go in as the reviews said it was breathtaking inside, but knowing there would be more stairs, we decided to give it a miss.

By lunchtime, I was feeling the burn in my calves, but it was the Louvre this afternoon that finally broke me. Who knew it was that big? A local person would, I guess. The place was endless. We must have tottered along miles of marble corridors, and when your feet are as arched as mine and the front keeps slipping, it’s a special kind of agony, let me tell you. After two hours of pretending to admire Renaissance paintings while secretly mapping the shortest route back to the entrance, thankfully Annisa had seen enough.

Once outside in the main courtyard, my legs were physically shaking. I practically collapsed onto the stone steps near the glass pyramids. I didn't care who was looking or if it was "lady-like." I needed to rest. I dropped my black Chanel bag next to me, and caught my breath as Annisa went off to get us some water from a food truck parked nearby.

Sitting there, the reality of it all just kind of crashed down on me. I looked down at my outfit—the fitted royal blue peplum dress, my legs snug in sheer black tights, and my blue Victoria pumps looking mesmerizingly high. I tried to remind myself that I’m still David. But seeing my long lashes flutter and strands of silky black hair cross my vision, I let out a sarcastic chuckle. I tried to remind myself how lucky I am. A few months ago, I couldn't have even afforded the flight here, let alone the expensive meals, and all the entrance admissions to the attractions. Yet, somehow it just felt hollow. Like I didn’t deserve to be there.

To make matters worse, while I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself, my phone buzzed. It was Kevin.

Just a simple text: “Hope you’re having a good time? I’m thinking of you.”

My heart sank into my stomach. It was a sweet message, and knowing Kevin, he probably overthought things before sending. I typed out a reply, “Hey, Paris is fun. How are things back home?” My comically long fingernail hovered over the send button for what felt like forever—but I couldn't bring myself to press it. I eventually deleted the message and threw the phone back in my designer bag. Anything I said would just be another lie, or worse, a way to keep stringing him along.

Hours later, I still haven't answered him. It makes me feel like the absolute worst person in the world to just ghost him like this, but I don't know what else to do. Being cruel with silence seems like the kindest thing to do in the long run.

Now as I lay here listening to the traffic down on the avenue and Annisa’s faint snores from the room next door, I know I need to turn the lamp off and try to sleep, but my mind won’t shut up. It’s lonely sometimes, pretending to be someone you’re not, unable to tell people how I really feel or risk blowing my cover. At least I’ve got you, Journal. Without you, I’d probably have gone mad by now.

May 21st

Dear Journal,

So far, I’ve managed to get by with my basic French without Annisa suspecting I’m a total fraud. I’m honestly not sure how, as there have been plenty of moments where I've asked a local a question, misunderstood the answer, and caused a funny look or an incredibly awkward silence. When I ordered the wrong milk for Annisa’s coffee, I blamed it on how busy the café was. When our taxi took us to the wrong hotel, I blamed it on the driver trying to make some extra money off us. But today, I made a mistake that I had to take full ownership of, and I feel so frustrated and stupid.

After the nonstop sightseeing over the last few days, today was supposed to be a down day to rest and recuperate. Annisa wanted a pamper session at a high-end salon. After a few stressful phone calls, I managed to find one that actually had an opening—probably because we were willing to pay their eye-watering prices.

I was already on edge during the taxi ride when Annisa dropped a bombshell: she wanted to go blonde. Panic set in. Not because it wouldn’t look good on her, but because I was the one who had to accurately translate that to an intimidating Parisian stylist. I told her to find a picture on her phone, hoping to avoid disaster.

The photo should have made things foolproof. But after showing it to the stylist, she launched into a dizzying barrage of rapid French. Instead of admitting I had no idea what she was asking, my survival instincts kicked in—and I blindly agreed to everything she proposed. The horrifying reality of what I had done hit me shortly after the stylist sectioned my hair. The stinging scent of bleach filled the air, followed instantly by the wet, cold feeling of the chemical mixture being painted directly onto my scalp. The worst part was suffering in silence for hours, my skin itching and burning beneath a mound of foils, agonizing over how I kept doing this to myself.

Hours later in the waiting area, Annisa's jaw practically hit the floor the moment she saw me. I complimented her new look—she really did look stunning—but the sight of an identical hairdo on my head had obviously stunned her into silence. I forced a laugh and told her I decided to surprise her with a makeover of my own. I mean, what could I say? I could hardly admit my terrible French was the reason I’d accidentally copied her new style.

A heavy silence hung in the air as she processed my platinum blonde strands and the ultra-girly, choppy fringe resting just above my eyebrows. I wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. That is, until her face suddenly lit up. She squealed, wrapped her arms around my neck, and excitedly announced that we could now be twins.

Walking to dinner tonight felt surreal, but not for the usual reasons. The rhythmic click of my Charlotte Olympia pumps, the evening breeze against my tights, the soft, silky touch of my frilly black blouse and flared white skirt—somehow, all of that feels scarily normal now. But the new hair—it feels so wrong.

Being a blonde in Paris is an experience I never asked for and never imagined. I feel completely exposed. The bright hair is like a beacon daring people to look closer, to come over and talk to me: the absolute last thing you want when you’re a crossdressed man surviving on a wing and a prayer.

We’re leaving Paris tomorrow for a few days in the countryside. At least I'll have some time to get used to the stranger staring back at me in the mirror.

God, the thought of my family seeing me like this. It was bad enough before, but how am I going to explain to them that I now look like a platinum Asian Barbie, and that it was all done completely against my will?

May 22nd

Dear Journal,

I feel terrible. I don’t want to do this anymore. I just want to go home to my family.

It’s been an awful day. It started far too early with a long, chauffeur-driven ride out of Paris and deep into the countryside. Under different circumstances, watching the city fade into rolling green hills might have been beautiful, but today it just felt like I was being dragged further away from where I wanted to be. We arrived in Dijon—yes, the famous mustard place—early in the afternoon and after a very light lunch we immediately set off to see the sunflowers outside the city.

By the time we got there, I was tired, hungry, and still traumatized from my cute new hairdo. It’s an image I literally cannot escape, because every time I look at Annisa, I see the exact blonde hairstyle that sprouts from my scalp.

I guess, in a way, I’m listing all of this to try and justify what happened next. But in reality, my behaviour was inexcusable.

Today was the nicest weather we’ve had since arriving in France. I was wearing a short, teal-blue flared dress with cap sleeves and an intricate golden-green damask pattern. It felt suffocatingly tight on my body, and the material was far too thick for such a warm afternoon. Adding to my misery was the absolute nightmare of trying to navigate a field in stilettos. Every time I took a step, the heels of my Charlotte Olympia pumps sank deep into the soft soil, turning what should have been a pleasant, idyllic stroll into a humiliating, exhausting slog.

It must have been quite the comical sight, because a pair of children soon began following me around, pointing and laughing at my struggles. And that’s when I snapped. I screamed at them, calling them a word I’d rather not repeat.

The little girl ran off and the boy burst into tears, leaving me standing there with my hand on my head, regretting my outburst.

A pair of enraged parents soon descended on us, demanding answers. I stammered out a stream of desperate apologies, but they were furious, and rightly so.

We left shortly after, and the silence in the car was deafening. I know Annisa is incredibly disappointed in me. She has barely spoken a word or even looked at me since that moment in the field. The guilt is eating me alive, and I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to fix things.

May 23rd

Dear Journal,

Today has been an absolute rollercoaster, but as I sit here writing this, I feel like a massive weight has lifted off my chest.

Annisa told me she wanted to be alone today and went off to explore Dijon by herself, leaving me in the hotel room to wallow in self-pity, tracing back the steps that led me to this feminized prison. I desperately wanted to blame Annisa, the awful weather, or Kevin. But eventually, I couldn’t deny the ugly truth: I am the only one to blame. I had countless chances to say no, to be honest, to make a different choice. I chose to be a coward. And now I had humiliated Annisa—the one person who has asked for nothing and given me everything.

I decided right then that I was going to fix it. If this was to be my final week with her, I was going to give her the best week of her life. No more sulking—Fifi was going to be the happiest, most fun-loving tour guide she could possibly be.

When Annisa walked in around 5pm, she gave me one miserable look and headed straight for her bedroom. I couldn't let it happen. I marched up to her, apologised again, and begged for her forgiveness before telling her to get showered and dressed for a fun night out. After a long, hesitant pause, she finally said ‘okay’ and vanished into her room.

I immediately set to work making myself look perfect. I showered, styled my blonde hair, did my makeup with extra care, and put on the chunky gold hoops Annisa always compliments. I pulled out a dark burgundy sleeveless dress with a stiff, pleated skirt—one she had insisted I buy in Paris—and paired it with tights and my spiked Louboutin peep-toe pumps.

The walk into the centre was rough. I tried to lead the conversation, chatting about fashion, travel, and even romance, but Annisa remained walled off, giving me nothing but quiet grunts.

The breakthrough finally happened when a man stopped us on the street to ask for the time. Acting purely on impulse, I looked at him, said ‘Sorry, I don't understand’ in English, and shot Annisa a subtle wink. She caught on instantly, answering him in flawless French. The moment he walked away, her entire demeanour changed. She was practically beaming with pride, and I congratulated her, saying she’d be fluent in no time.

From there we wandered into a few boutiques, tried on outfits, and shared an amazing five-course dinner. We were laughing as we walked back to the town square, right up until a deafening crack of thunder shook the ground. Lightning flashed, the skies opened, and torrential rain forced us to sprint into a bar. We waited out the storm over a few glasses of wine, but when we finally stepped back outside, the square was practically a lake. Annisa froze, looking stressed about how we were supposed to cross without getting our feet wet.

But I wasn’t worried. I felt strangely calm. There was no thought of ‘This is something David would do, not Fifi’ or ‘This isn’t very ladylike.’ I just reacted. I tottered out into the submerged square, splashing through the water, and called back to Annisa that the flood wasn't a problem—I was lucky enough to be wearing magical shoes.

She stared at me in shock for a second before a huge smile broke across her face. She ran out to join me. And there we were, two blonde Asians in absurdly expensive dresses and designer heels, sloshing about in the rainwater while the locals stared at us in total confusion.

I remember thinking in that moment: Look all you want. I’m done hiding who I am.