May 25th

Dear Journal,

So we’re back in Paris now after our trip to the countryside, and I’m still forcing myself to stay positive for Annisa. When she asks if I’m having fun, I gush over how incredible it all is. When she suggests an afternoon at the Musée d’Orsay or a specific bistro in Le Marais, I declare it a wonderful idea and get straight on my phone to book it. When she likes something I try on during one of our shopping trips, I smile and say I love it—leading to my wardrobe growing progressively frillier and girlier over the last few days.

It’s been exhausting. Remembering to smile when I don’t feel like it, remembering to bite my tongue when I’m about to lose my composure, and ignoring the looks as I prance around like Annisa’s walking, talking dress-up doll.

That being said, it really isn’t so bad. Strip away the guilt of fooling Annisa and the rest of the world into believing I’m a woman, and I am touring amazing places, wearing the finest fabrics, and eating the best food. I know there are people far worse off than me, and that’s what I keep reminding myself.

I struggled when deciding what memory to draw today. Usually an image sticks, but today nothing stood out, so I settled for a moment from this afternoon: I’m standing by that massive, carved stone fountain, my right hand resting flat on the ledge, fingers curving slightly to give room for my extended nails. My cream wrap blouse is light and airy, tucked into a baby blue skater skirt with a quilted purse resting at my hip. My legs are shiny and slick in off-white, sheer tights, hoisted six inches off the ground by my Bianca pumps. I’m grinning towards Annisa as she snaps the picture, ignoring the glances from the passers-by.

It isn’t a pivotal event or some awkward situation. It’s just one of a thousand moments on our sightseeing tour of Paris—capturing Fifi living her life.

May 27th

Bonjour Journal,

My head is a complete mess today. With our flight back to Jakarta creeping closer, I keep urging myself to act—to finally face the music and march down to the British Embassy, heels or no heels!

As much as I’ve changed, almost all of it is reversible. Well, apart from the damage to my feet, but given enough time, I have to believe there’s a way to fix it. I know that once my family gets over the initial shock of seeing me like this, they’ll support me. They love me; they’ll help me get back to normal.

I’ve even written two notes for Annisa. One lays out the whole truth of who I am, and the other leaves the David part out entirely. Both tell her how grateful I am for her friendship and apologise for leaving so abruptly.

But I’m still here. I’ve had half a dozen opportunities to go, and every single time, I’ve talked myself out of it.

Take yesterday. We’d booked tickets to the Moulin Rouge for dinner and a show. Annisa wanted to get really glammed up, so after a shopping trip to find the perfect gowns, she had me book a hair and makeup artist to come to our room.

I had three clear windows to slip away: first thing in the morning, during our afternoon nap, or while the stylist was busy working on her. But every time, something stopped me.

It’s crazy to think now, but I wanted to give her the memory; I wanted to see how beautiful she would look when ready, and if I’m honest, I also wanted to get dressed up and experience the Moulin Rouge with her.

And it was an incredible night. Annisa looked stunning. And so did I.

We wore almost identical floor-length velvet gowns with open backs. A slit ran up the entire length of the right leg, revealing sheer black tights and six-inch platform pumps. The main difference was that my dress was black and a little lacier, whereas hers was a deep emerald green. It took a bit of manoeuvring to keep my underwear from showing, but after slipping into a thong and arranging my falsies inside a sticky backless bra, I made do, even if it wasn’t the most comfortable.

I remember standing side by side with her in front of the hotel mirror before heading out, with our matching blonde updos and glossy red lips. She looked so happy, her smile lighting up the room. It was infectious, and I kept grinning all night long over cracked lobster shells and gin cocktails, lost in a blur of roaring music, crimson booths, and a stage full of dancers in heavy pink feathers.

And not a single moment was faked. I genuinely had an amazing time. Which has led to a strange and almost disturbing thought:

If I go to the Embassy, I’ll be erasing Fifi from existence. The life I’m living now will completely change. And it’s a life I’ll miss.

But which life will I miss more—David’s or Fifi’s?

May 29th

Oh my God. I feel so stupid. Like crying, shouting, breaking something.

Today, while I was still agonising over tomorrow's flight back to Jakarta, Annisa pulled the rug out from under me.

We’d barely finished dinner when she suddenly took charge. Said it was a "nice evening for a walk" and that she "wanted to show me something." Honestly, it felt a little jarring after I’d been the one managing our itinerary the entire trip, but at this point I wasn’t worried.

I resisted the urge to groan, remembering I was wearing my Victorias. I wasn’t expecting a long walk on the cobblestone streets and knew they would be torture on my ankles. But I managed a cheerful smile and played along.

She led me straight up the Champs-Élysées. People were glancing over at my outfit—a coordinated royal blue damask set, complete with ruffled trim and a swirling white pattern. With my doll-like hair bouncing above and massive platforms teetering below, I felt ridiculous, but Annisa had insisted I looked "super cute."

We hardly spoke, but her excitement was palpable.

Soon, the city noise faded as we turned down a side alley. Suddenly, the only sounds were the sharp click of my heels, the swish of my nylon tights, and the jangle of my earrings.

After I’d spent what felt like forever trying to work out what was happening, she finally stopped in front of an old brick building. She must have read the confusion on my face. Before I could utter a word, she lifted a manicured finger and said, "Just wait."

She rang the bell, and the door swung open almost instantly. We were greeted by a stick-thin woman in a skirt suit clutching a folder; Annisa kissed her cheeks, called her by name, and swept right inside. I followed cautiously, my stomach twisting as we ascended three flights of winding stairs. It wasn’t until we were standing alone in the centre of an empty, echoing living room that Annisa launched into a clearly rehearsed monologue to explain the reason for bringing me there.

She paced the wooden floor, detailing her lifelong dream of moving to Paris to open a high-end bridal boutique. She painted this fairytale picture of us as partners—living there in that gorgeous eighteenth-century building, overlooking the park, and across from a little espresso bar.

The travel, the nights out, the adventure.

A life of absolute indulgence and luxury.

I was trying to digest it all, when she said something that made my blood run cold.

“We’ll do it together,” she beamed. “You can help me learn everything I need to know about Paris, and I can help you become a real woman.”

My mouth fell open, locking my face into a bewildered, frozen mask of disbelief. My brain short-circuited, and a cold shiver began to violently shake my limbs.

“You... you know?” I stammered, the words scraping out of my throat. “How? How long?”

“It’s okay! Lots of people these days are born in the wrong body; there is nothing to be ashamed of,” she said, her smile entirely too casual for the panic erupting inside me. “I figured it out pretty quickly after you arrived. But I was waiting for you to tell me in your own time. Sorry, I didn’t give you the chance.”

I tried to speak, but nothing came out. All this time, she knew. And I had played along, completely oblivious. I felt like the biggest fool in the world.

“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” she added softly, stepping closer. “But please think it over. We’ll be fifty-fifty partners, and don’t worry about money. I have plenty.”

I remember looking towards the door and for a brief moment I considered making a run for it. I wonder how far I would have got?

But instead, I just stood there shaking and heard my own voice whisper, “Okay.”

May 30th

I don’t think I’ve taken a full breath since we left the townhouse. And I now find myself being dragged back towards Asia. Annisa is sitting across from me, flipping through a magazine, completely at peace, while I stare out the window, trying to pinpoint the exact moment I lost my mind.

I spent months obsessing about every detail of my appearance, trying to look pretty and act as girly as possible. Why? Because it was easier to let Fifi exist than to have one single, awkward, honest conversation?

And instead of helping, the act has just compounded the lie, making it almost impossible to explain things now. What would I say? “Hey Annisa, I’m not actually transgender. It’s all just a big misunderstanding. I’m an English guy who pretended to be a French girl because I lost my suitcase and didn’t know what else to do… Sorry.”

She’d think I was insane.

Perhaps I am?

I mean, look at me! I’m sitting here in first-class with six-inch Christian Louboutins propped up on a soft leather leg rest. I have a cream mini-skirt that insists on riding up my smooth, slender legs wrapped in shiny nude tights. What normal man would go this far?

I just finished sketching and it was a chore—fighting the pencil with these ridiculously long nails while blonde hair kept falling into my face and fluttering lashes obscured my vision.

What’s scary is, staring down at the person I just drew, I can’t find any trace of the boy in the jeans, leather jacket, and scuffed Converse who flew to Jakarta only a few months ago dreaming of change and adventure.

He’s gone. Change found him, erased him, and remodelled him into a refined, pampered princess. One with a lifetime of getting up early to apply makeup, a stretching abyss of needing six-inch heels just to move around, and an eternity of living a lie of my own making.

That’s my life now and there is no one to blame.

No one did this to me. I did it to myself.