Becoming Fifi - 23

April 6th

Dear Journal,

Another few days have crawled by. Each day, I slip into yet another cute dress or short skirt, squeeze my unyielding feet into a pair of towering heels, and force a smile as fake as the wig glued to my head. Annisa, ever eager to atone for her mistake, continues trying to make amends, but her efforts only make things worse. Every kind gesture, every thoughtful surprise, just pushes me further into an identity I’m desperately trying to resist.

Two days ago, she booked us in at one of the city’s most luxurious spas. “A day of pampering,” she chirped, as if facials and massages would magically make everything better. The experience, while undeniably relaxing, felt like a cruel reminder of just how much of my old self I’ve already lost. Lying there, wrapped in a towel, being exfoliated and moisturised with strange, humming devices and sweet-smelling creams, I felt completely lost.

Every gentle touch only highlighted how soft my skin has become, how delicate my body now feels. My frame - once undeniably boyish - has taken on a slim, fragile, and, dare I say it, feminine look.

And the worst part? Annisa saw the frustration on my face and misunderstood it. To her, I must have appeared unimpressed. And in her mind, that meant she needed to do more.

That’s the cycle these days: her guilt leads her to treat me, and those treats erase a little more of David and bring a little more of Fifi to the forefront. The more she tries to fix things, the more I lose myself.

And then there was today’s debacle. Annisa dragged me out for an evening of drinks with her friends. With no convenient excuse to fall back on, I reluctantly agreed.

But the night played out like a scene from a bad rom-com, with what was supposed to be a casual gathering suspiciously resembling a double date. Annisa spent most of the evening flirting with a man she was clearly interested in, leaving me to entertain his friend, Kevin. She later offered a half-hearted apology, mumbling something about the others cancelling at the last minute. But I’ve spent enough time around her to know when she’s lying. I was stitched up!

So, I played the part, Journal. What choice did I have? To Kevin, I was Fifi - a mysterious young woman with a foreign accent, dressed to impress. He hung onto my every word, his gaze drifting between my eyes and my glossy red lips. The evening was a gauntlet of compliments, gentle teasing, and moments where Kevin would lean in, closing the distance between us - his hand brushing my arm or his glass touching mine in unnecessary cheers.

The image I sketched today captures just how surreal it all was: there I am, teetering on sky-high heels, standing beside "my date" for the evening - another man! The moment had been staged, of course, courtesy of Annisa, who whipped out her phone and insisted on a photo as we left the bar. "You two make a cute couple!" she announced cheerfully, snapping picture after picture.

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, though I imagine the layers of makeup did a decent job of hiding the flush of embarrassment. Kevin’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me in close. The thin fabric of my black-and-white patterned dress offered little buffer - I could feel every slight movement of his fingers as they settled against the small of my back, gliding over the silky material.

Resisting the urge to pull away, I stood there, stiffening my legs to keep them from wobbling. With my clip-on earrings pinching my lobes, a borrowed designer handbag hanging awkwardly from the crook of my elbow, and my scalp itching beneath glued-on auburn locks, all I could do was smile through it. Smile, nod, and wonder how on earth I’d ended up here - pretending to be some dolled-up French girl out on a date, while the rest of the world played along.

(See image 23)

At the end of the evening, Kevin said his goodbyes, suggested another meeting, and for one awkward moment, I thought he was going to try and kiss me. Thankfully, he didn’t - but I was still left reeling with a mix of frustration and betrayal - all aimed at Annisa. On the ride back to the apartment, I let her know exactly how I felt. Every glance she threw my way was met with a glare, while every question was answered with a single, clipped word.

Now, back in my room and ready for bed, I still don’t know exactly how to feel. Annoyed. Angry. But also guilty. I know she means well - she's been more generous than most would be to a complete stranger - but today felt like a step too far.

What she likely saw as a harmless double date, a bit of light-hearted fun, felt to me like being thrown into the deep end of a shark-infested pool - unable to swim, and wearing concrete boots.

It's clear to me now. Something has to change. And as much as I hate to admit it, that something might have to be me.

The only strategy I can think of to put a stop to the spa days, the surprise gifts, and the constant nudges further into femininity is to pretend I’m happy. To act like I’ve come to terms with all of this. Maybe then she’ll stop trying to “fix” things.

Because if the only way to keep her from pushing me deeper into this identity is to play along - then, for now at least, that’s exactly what I’ll have to do.