June 7th

Dear Journal,

It’s been a week since my last entry. Sorry for the radio silence but I just haven't been in the mood to write.

Right now, I’m sitting on a park bench wishing I’d brought a scrunchie so I could tie up all the annoyingly long hair stuck to the back of my neck. I'm wearing a sleeveless silk top that clings to a sweat-soaked padded bra, and a pair of tight denim shorts I mistakenly thought would be a nice change from a skirt.

The air today is thick and sticky, carrying the faint scent of someone grilling corn nearby. It’s wild to think that just this past February, I was sitting in a freezing park back in London, completely disillusioned with where my life was heading. Back then, all I wanted was what I have now: an action-packed life on the other side of the world, surrounded by new friends, with a job that might actually lead somewhere.

Mission accomplished, I guess. I just never in a million years pictured myself living that new life as a woman—or more specifically, as the trans woman Annisa is convinced I am. Honestly, all things considered, I think I’ve adjusted pretty well. The constant paranoia of someone seeing through the act is basically gone. I can go hours in a mini skirt or a short dress without it even registering as weird. These long nails hardly even slow me down anymore, and walking in heels feels just as second-nature as walking barefoot used to be. Sounds insane to write that out, but it’s true.

Speaking of Annisa, she’s back in stress mode. Ever since we got back from Paris, every single conversation has been about going back. The clock is officially ticking—we leave in two months. And as I’m quickly learning, relocating to another country is a massive production for her. When I first came out here, I just threw pretty much everything I owned into a bag, hugged my family goodbye, and hopped on a plane.

For her, it’s completely different. It means relocating an entire business with weddings still on the books, shipping crates of clothes and shoes overseas, and organizing an endless string of going-away parties.

Lately, I’ve realized the best strategy is just to nod, agree with what she says, and fade into the background—slipping away for quiet moments like this whenever I can get them.

In other news, I strutted over here today in a pair of high-heeled sandals that hurt too much to even stand in last month. I’m taking it as proof that my feet are actually improving. Annisa booked me in with another specialist in a few days, and I’m crossing my fingers they’ll confirm the progress. With any luck, by the time we fly back to Europe, I’ll be in a pair of flat shoes again. God, that would be amazing.

June 12th

Dear Journal,

Well, the visit to see the so-called foot expert was a complete waste of time. He hardly even looked at my feet and spent most of the time giving me a full medical examination, but I guess there wasn’t much improvement. He did, however, give me an injection and a prescription for pills to take each day, so hopefully there will be better news next time I visit.

Apart from that, it’s been a pretty quiet week, with most days spent in the boutique and most evenings in the best restaurants and cocktail bars Jakarta has to offer. I can definitely feel the change now that Annisa has stopped taking on any new bookings to focus on the move to Paris.

The only standout moment happened earlier this morning when I barged into the apartment bathroom to find Annisa all sweaty from a 10K ride on her exercise bike. I apologised for disturbing her and tried to leave, but I guess my eyes lingered a bit too long on her chest, and she noticed.

I braced for anger, or at least a flush of embarrassment, but Annisa didn't flinch. Instead, she cupped her breasts with both hands and lifted them slightly. “It’s okay. You can look,” she said. I froze, completely tongue-tied. Before I could recover, she asked what I thought of her size—whether I thought they were too big or too small. I managed to stammer out that they suited her frame perfectly, which drew a satisfied smile.

Then, in typical Annisa fashion, the mood shifted entirely. She told me how proud she was of my transition progress and called me brave before asking what I’d like to change about my appearance. "My hair colour," I blurted out instantly. She just laughed, eyes sparkling, and said she would see what she could do.

I finally managed to excuse myself, backing out of the bathroom with my head spinning. Annisa really can be impossible to figure out sometimes.

June 16th

Dear Journal,

Why can I never say no anymore? I used to be able to stand up for myself back when I was David. If I was in a situation where I could see an unwanted outcome, I would refuse. But as Fifi, I seem to lose my voice at the worst possible times and just go along with things—even when the results make going back to my old life much harder.

Early this morning, Annisa and I went into the city to visit what she called the best image consultant in Jakarta. I expected some skin treatments, perhaps some makeup and fashion advice, and hoped to rid myself of this awful blonde hair. I got all that and so much more.

While the appointment began with a massage that lulled me into a false sense of security, I was soon ushered into a private room without Annisa to meet Kika—an intimidating woman with bright blue hair. She knew I wasn’t a real woman and had a collection of images that she went through with me on a slideshow—no doubt supplied by Annisa.

That slideshow made for a deeply uncomfortable experience, especially as she began bringing up outfits that accentuated my male and female features, switching from one to the other to make a point. She zoomed in on parts of my face while pointing out the subtle differences between male and female bone structures. She finished her presentation by looking at all the different hair colours and styles I’d had as Fifi, before telling me that my current blonde look “made me look low class.”

It was all very personal and humiliating, made even worse when she brought up three images of women on the screen side by side and asked which one I thought was more attractive. Every time I gave an answer, three more came up, and the process repeated for what felt like ten minutes. When the ordeal ended, she suggested some treatments based on my answers, firing off names of procedures I’d never heard of and could barely pronounce, let alone repeat.

I should have taken a minute to make her explain each one in detail to ensure I knew what I was literally signing up for. But as I mentioned at the beginning of this entry, in that moment, I lost my nerve. After asking a few questions about the procedures and learning that my skin and hair would be worked on with the goal of making me look my absolute best, I signed the consent form and surrendered to the process, thinking, how bad could it be?

Hours later, I was standing in front of the mirror in complete shock. I could still recognise myself, but at the same time, I looked like a different person. My hair had been dyed a deep, dark red and styled straight. It reminded me of the old wig I used to wear, except this was a mixture of hair extensions and my real hair. It was an improvement on the blonde, for sure, but right then my focus wasn't on my hair—my face was red, swollen, and covered in tiny prick marks.

Breathing in short, sharp bursts, I tried to work out what they had actually done while I lay reclining with my eyes closed and my face numb from the cold cream they applied. I’d experienced chemical peels before that left my skin red and raw, but the intensity of this was on another level. My cheeks and jawline were now plump and rounded, shifting the overall balance of my face heavily toward the feminine side. Above them, my eyebrows had been completely transformed—higher, more arched, and entirely flat to the touch, like they'd been drawn directly onto my skin. And then there were my lips! Clearly injected with filler, they puffed out, leaving them almost comically full.

Now, writing this down hours later, I’m trying to be rational. I know the redness will eventually fade and some of the swelling will go down, but while still trying to avoid every mirror in the apartment, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve made a horrible mistake—one that is going to haunt me for a very long time to come.

June 23rd

Hey Journal,

Maybe I overreacted a little after that visit to the image consultant. I mean, I already looked like a woman before I even walked in there. I knew it was always going to take time and effort if I ever wanted to look like my old self again, so in the grand scheme of things, waiting six to nine months for the filler to dissolve—I checked online—really isn't the end of the world.

Anyway, I met up with Kevin today, and it was actually really nice. I’d been ignoring his messages ever since I got back to Jakarta, mostly because I felt so guilty about ghosting him in the first place. But then I bumped into him at a bar the other night while I was out with Annisa and some of the girls. We ended up chatting for a few minutes, and before I knew it, I’d agreed to grab a coffee with him at Kopi Atas.

The best part is that even after I treated him so poorly, Kevin didn’t hold it against me at all. He was waiting at a small table out on the shaded terrace, looking his usual relaxed self in a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Despite the afternoon heat and the Jakarta traffic humming below us, sitting there with him felt like stepping into a bubble of calm.

It’s never heavy with him—he listens, we laugh, and the time just seems to fly by. He didn’t even mention my face once—he just complimented me on my hair and said I looked pretty. I’d spent all morning stressing that the high ponytail and big hoops drew too much attention to my over-plumped lips, and that pairing clear platform sandals with a floral summer dress might come across like I was trying way too hard. But staring into his friendly eyes as he smiled back at me, I actually believed him.

I’ve agreed to see him again in a few days, but I made sure to be clear that I’m not looking for a relationship. He seemed completely fine with that and said all he wanted was to spend time with me. That was not only a massive relief, but exactly what I needed to hear, because I could really use a friend to talk to right now who isn’t Annisa.