Becoming Fifi - 6 - 10

March 4th

Dear Journal,

I spent all of yesterday hiding out in my hotel room. Usually, I wouldn’t mind the peace and quiet, but given my current situation, it felt more like a weird kind of exile. My brain wouldn’t shut up - looping through every half-baked idea it could come up with to get me out of my predicament, each one more absurd than the last. I barely slept.

By the time morning rolled around, my stomach was growling and my mouth was dry. I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for over twenty-four hours, and of course, my phone had died overnight. The charger - like everything else remotely useful - was somewhere inside my missing suitcase.

I knew I had no choice but to go out. Which meant I needed to bite the bullet and find something to wear!

I stood in front of the suitcase again, already dreading what I might find. I opened it with a trembling hand and was greeted by a kaleidoscope of bright, girly clothing. Taking a deep breath, I got to work doing an inventory of the contents, hoping to find something remotely masculine. I was left sorely disappointed.

However, I did manage to find a pair of denim shorts hiding at the bottom. Tiny, tight, and clearly not made for a man. I had to suck in my stomach and wrestle the button closed, and even then, it felt like the shorts were holding a grudge. But at least I wasn’t forced to wear a skirt like I’d feared.

For a top, I picked out a long ivory sweater with a scoop neck. Soft, thick, and actually kind of comfortable. It hung lower than any sweater I’d ever worn - completely covering the shorts unless I tucked it in at the waist.

Next came the shoes. Three pairs presented themselves from the case - all far from ideal. One was a pair of bright pink stilettos, absurdly tall and eye-catchingly shiny. One pair was black and white, with razor-thin heels that made me dizzy just looking at them. And finally - mercifully - a pair of flat sandals. Still not great, but at least they didn’t look like they’d cause me an injury. I grabbed those.

Cream-coloured, with thick straps and a weirdly soft, felt-like texture, the sandals sat strangely between my toes and looped tightly around my ankles. They might’ve been practical for a woman in a hot climate who needed to do some walking, but they were a far cry from my trusty Converse - which had vanished from the shared bathroom across the hall.

Once dressed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or hide under the bed. That’s when I had an idea - probably my craziest yet. While digging through the suitcase, I had found a reddish-brown wig: long, wavy. And because apparently I’ve lost all sense of rational decision-making, I put it on.

It felt strange on my head - heavier than I expected - but it sat surprisingly well. I looked in the mirror and saw a person I barely recognised. There I was, in that sweater-that-looks-like-a-dress, those tight little shorts - felt but not visible, women’s sandals strapped to my feet, and a full head of unfamiliar hair.

I just stared for a while before I ended up sketching the unusual sight. Like all the other images, it’ll serve as a reminder of a moment in time - though I struggle to imagine how I’ll ever forget this particular one.

(See Image 06)

Still wearing the same ridiculous outfit - minus the wig, which I just couldn’t bring myself to wear in public - I made my way down to reception.

Of course, Amirah was there.

She looked up and did a full double-take. Her eyes landed on the hem of my sweater, which had come loose from my shorts as I came down the stairs - making it look, once again, like I wasn’t wearing any. She paused for a second, then looked back up at my face without saying a word. The silence that followed was... uncomfortable.

My throat was still dry, so when I finally asked where I could buy a phone charger, my voice came out croaky and strange. It felt like the words just hung there, awkward and heavy, while the real conversation - the one neither of us acknowledged - stayed firmly unspoken.

To her credit, Amirah gave me a polite smile and slid a small map across the desk, pointing out the nearest electronics store. No questions or comments about my unusual appearance. Just the map.

I stepped out onto the street and was immediately hit by the chaos of Jakarta. The heat, the people, the constant movement - it all felt like it was happening in slow motion. I was uncomfortably aware of what I was wearing. Every step felt like a spotlight was shining on me.

The sandals slapped awkwardly against the pavement, straps tugging in all the wrong places. The shorts were far too tight, and the sweater was trapping every ounce of heat against my skin. Within minutes, I was drenched in sweat and regretting all of my choices.

I tried not to look at anyone, but I could feel their eyes. Quick glances. Lingering stares. A few smirks I might’ve imagined. I walked faster than usual, hoping to somehow outrun the embarrassment.

When I finally made it to the electronics shop, I felt an odd wave of relief. The guy behind the counter treated me like any other customer. He just rang up the charger, took my money, and handed over the bag. Honestly, it was the most comfortable part of my day.

My next stop was the convenience store to stock up on water and whatever snacks I could afford with the pitiful amount of change left in my pocket. The cashier there definitely gave me a look - one of those subtle, confused glances. I forced a smile, paid, and got out of there as fast as I could.

Back in my room, I plugged in my phone and nearly cried when the charging symbol finally appeared. Once I had a bit of battery, I called the airline. They don't know where my suitcase is, but they promised they’re “looking into it.”

So yeah. Today was not the adventure I imagined when I booked this trip. It was awkward, sweaty, and utterly surreal. But I got through it.

And sitting here now, still in borrowed clothes, I can almost see the funny side. Almost.

Maybe one day I’ll look back on all this and laugh. Right now, though, I’m just hoping tomorrow is a little less... eventful.

David

March 6th

Dear Journal,

It’s official - I’ve hit rock bottom.

The past two days have been a slow descent into hell. The first dragged by in a blur of boredom, hunger, and quiet despair. I barely left my room. With no money, no clothes, and nothing to do but keep calling the airline - always in vain - in the hope my suitcase had turned up, there didn’t seem much point. I hardly moved, too drained to do anything but ration what little food and water I had left.

And then came today.

Today wasn’t quiet.

Today was an absolute disaster!

I had to go to the school to sign my contract and hand over my passport and degree certificate to finalise the job. Which meant, once again, I was forced to turn to the suitcase of horrors and find something to wear.

The outfit I ended up with wasn’t far off from what I wore last time. The denim Daisy Duke-style shorts made a reappearance - still crushingly small - but I’d accepted them as the lesser of several evils. I swapped the sweater for a white top with thin straps - after nearly roasting in wool the other day, I wasn’t making that mistake again. As for shoes, the idea of showing up to my new workplace in stilettos was laughable, so I once again strapped my feet into the only flat pair I had. I also dug out a small brown leather purse I’d found buried in the suitcase. It wasn’t exactly masculine, but I needed something to carry my passport, phone, and documents - and it beat stuffing everything into my waistband.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I almost chickened out. The whole outfit felt way too girly - shorts riding high on my legs, shoulders completely exposed - nothing about it said, “formal meeting.” All I could do was hope the school staff wouldn’t judge me by what I showed up in, and that they’d understand my situation. Maybe they’d even offer some help.

With a knot in my stomach, I made my way downstairs. Amirah was on reception again, and the second she looked up, her eyes widened. Ever the professional, she recovered quickly and smiled warmly - which somehow made the whole interaction even more embarrassing. I asked if she could print me a map to the school, and she was happy to help. As I thanked her, I couldn’t help thinking back to the moment I’d briefly considered asking her out. Yeah… that ship had definitely sailed. I took the map and stepped out into the chaos of Jakarta.

I didn’t have money for transport, so walking was my only option - forty-five minutes in the sweltering heat, dressed like I was headed to a beach bar to meet some girlfriends.

Outside, the Jakartan sun hit me like a wall, and the air wrapped around me - sticky, suffocating, and relentless. Heat radiated off every surface, pounding down on my bare shoulders. I tried to blend into the crowd, but I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Every step felt like a battle. People stared. Not everyone, but enough to make it unbearable. I could feel their eyes roaming - down my hairy legs, up to the thin straps of my top, then darting away. I tried to keep my head down, focused on walking and not tripping over my own feet. But it was hard not to feel like I was part of some weird social experiment, and not in a good way.

The illustration below captures that exact moment - one I wish I could go back to. If I could, I’d tell my past self to turn around and run straight back to the safety of the hotel. Because moments later - as the universe seems to hate me - everything got a whole lot worse. Immeasurably worse.

(See image 07)

Without warning, the sky delivered a boom so loud I nearly jumped out of my sandals. It was like someone had dropped a shipping container from the clouds. And then came the rain. Not drizzle. Not a shower. Torrential rain! Like I had offended the weather gods and they were taking it personally.

Within seconds, the street ran with water. Locals scattered, diving under awnings and into shops. I followed suit, darting under an overhanging roof and trying to make myself as small as possible. From there, I watched in stunned silence as the water climbed higher and higher. The road I’d just been walking down was now completely submerged.

It didn’t stop.

Soon the water was lapping at the step where I stood, then my ankles. The roof was leaking. My sandals were soaked. The hem of my shorts started clinging to my thighs. Panic started to rise in my chest like the water around me.

I knew I needed to move - but as I stepped back, my foot slipped out from under me. I went down hard, arms flailing, hands scrambling for something - anything - to hold onto. But the water had me, and in seconds, it swept me off my step and dragged me away.

In a panic, I tried to regain my footing, but the current was too strong. Water surged past me, fast and forceful, as I tried to work out which way I was facing. I screamed for help, arms thrashing, legs banging into unseen debris beneath the surface. Then - in what felt like slow motion - my bag caught on something, the strap snapped, and it disappeared into the murky water!

Mercifully, my hand then gripped something solid. A railing? A pole? I can’t remember. Whatever it was, I clung to it for dear life, holding on until the rain finally eased and the water began to recede. When it felt safe enough to move - an eternity later - I pulled myself up with the last of my strength, coughing, shaking, and soaked through.

I stood there, trembling, my hair plastered to my face, my top clinging to me like a second skin. One sandal was gone. My shorts had a huge rip up the side, and my legs were bruised and sore. But none of that mattered - not in that moment. My mind could only focus on one thing: the bag was gone. And - terrifyingly - with it, my wallet, my phone, and my passport!

Eventually, someone came over and asked if I was okay. I did the most British thing imaginable and insisted I was fine - despite clearly being anything but. I wasn’t ready to talk, not to a stranger, not then. I thanked them for their concern, turned, and walked away.

Slowly, and still in a daze, I started trudging back toward the hotel. My remaining sandal made a horrible squelching sound with every step, and the rip in my shorts flapped against my thigh like it was mocking me. It felt like the longest walk of my life.

When I finally stumbled into the lobby, I remember Amirah looking up and gasping. She rushed out from behind the desk, asking what had happened - and by then, I didn’t have the strength to pretend I was fine. I collapsed into her arms as my legs gave into exhaustion.

I’m writing this now from the edge of my hotel bed, wrapped in a towel, staring blankly at the wall.

I have no phone. No passport. No money. No backup plan.

And honestly? I don’t know what happens next.

March 8th

Dear Journal,

As I write this, my body aches, my feet are destroyed, and my brain feels like it’s short-circuited. Honestly, I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or just pass out.

This morning started with me staring at the ceiling after a sleepless night, absolutely dreading the day ahead. It was check-out day at the hotel, and I had no idea what to do.

Then, with my frustration finally getting to me, I rose from the bed with a burst of energy, grabbed the suitcase and hurled it across the room. For a brief moment, it felt satisfying - watching all those girly clothes flying through the air as the case slammed into the wall with a loud thud. However, as the wave of despair started creeping back in, my eyes landed on something I hadn’t noticed before: a plastic envelope lying on the floor.

Inside were a bunch of documents, all in French: a birth certificate, a fashion design degree from some fancy Parisian university, and a letter. The name on everything? Fifi Geneviève LeRue. I couldn’t understand most of it, but one thing jumped out at me - an address. And it was here in Jakarta.

That’s when a plan started to form in my tired, scrambled brain. If I had her suitcase, maybe she had mine. And even if she didn’t, surely she could help. I did have something she wanted, after all - her belongings. Sure, it was a long shot, but if I could get to the address on the letter, it might open up some new options - options that didn’t involve being stranded on the hot streets of Jakarta with nowhere to sleep while being dressed in women’s clothes.

There was just one rather large issue: my wardrobe situation. After the flood disaster, the only clothes I had available were… well, let’s just say extremely feminine. And with one sandal lost and the other barely holding together, my options were down to two pairs of high heels that could easily double as medieval torture devices. The alternative was to go barefoot, risk slicing my foot open on the filthy Jakarta pavement, and end up with some awful infection - no thanks.

But I couldn’t exactly leave naked.

And that’s when I officially lost the plot.

I decided that if I was going to wear women’s clothes, I might as well commit. I figured I’d probably draw less attention looking like an actual woman than as a guy in drag. So, yeah. The wig went back on.

Then, remembering the lingering stares at my legs last time, I dug out a razor and, without really thinking it through, shaved my legs. And my armpits, while I was at it.

It’s a weird feeling, suddenly being hairless in places that - for as long as I could remember - have always been hairy. Too smooth. Too delicate. Like my skin didn’t belong to me anymore. I regretted it instantly.

Amirah’s reaction when I hobbled into reception to leave the suitcase with her for safekeeping and ask for another map was exactly what you’d expect. She looked up, did a double take, and let out a gasp loud enough to echo across the lobby. Then, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, she gave me a polite smile and printed the map. When she saw how far away the address was - and clocked my ridiculous shoes - she offered to call me a taxi. I smiled and politely declined, not wanting to admit I didn’t have a single rupiah to my name.

The second I left the safety of the hotel, the hot, humid Jakartan air welcomed me like an old friend. It wrapped around my hairless legs, making them tingle, while the wig on my head immediately heated up - becoming itchy and suffocating. A scooter zipped past, and the man on the back did a full double-take, craning his neck to stare at me until they disappeared around the corner. I couldn’t tell if he’d seen through the disguise or if my outfit simply made me stand out. Either way, the thought made my stomach twist. I tensed, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed I was. For the first time in a long while, I felt truly vulnerable.

I glanced down at my outfit and shook my head, sending long strands of artificial auburn hair whipping around my face. I was wearing a silky white blouse - chosen after umming and ahhing over two tops. In the end, I’d gone with the one that covered more skin, choosing to be hot and hidden rather than cooler but completely at the mercy of the midday sun. It also did a better job at concealing the bra stuffed with toilet paper - don’t ask - that made me feel about as ridiculous as you'd expect.

Then there were the black, leather shorts. Tight enough to leave marks. They were the only other pair in the suitcase, finding them after initially mistaking them for a skirt. Getting them on took some serious effort - I had to shimmy, wriggle, and breathe in until I thought I was going to pass out. But they were preferable to a skirt and did what I needed them to do: keep everything tucked away - any kind of bulge down there would’ve instantly given the game away.

And finally, the shoes. Black and white platforms with frighteningly narrow heels that forced my feet into a steep, unnatural angle. They pressed all my weight onto the balls of my feet while offering almost zero support. My ankles wobbled constantly, and every step had to land just right or risk buckling sideways. But the only alternative was a pair of blinding pink pumps, and somehow these felt like the less humiliating option.

Miles outside my comfort zone - cross-dressed, alone in a foreign country, and one wrong move away from total public humiliation - there was only one option left open to me. A mission to the other side of the city! And so, tottering one painful, wobbly step at a time atop six-inch platform heels... I set forth into the unknown.

Today’s sketch is of me, slumped on the side of the road a few hours into my gruelling journey - one of many breaks I had to take just to catch my breath and massage my poor, cramping feet.

(See image 08)

Eventually, with the sun sinking low in the sky, I reached the address written on the letter. The security guard at the entrance of the tall building didn’t speak English, so I handed him the letter. He buzzed someone, spoke for a few seconds in Bahasa Indonesia, then nodded and pointed me toward the elevator.

Thirteen floors up, I stepped out of the lift, silently grateful it existed - my legs were like jelly, and there was no way I’d have made it up the stairs. The sandals had dug into my feet, leaving me limping as I hobbled over to the door, which opened just as I reached it.

A woman stood there, clearly expecting me. Tall. Glamorous. Rich. She looked me up and down like I’d just crawled out of a storm drain. Fair enough, really - I probably looked like I had.

I asked if Fifi was home, and she smiled. Her English was limited, but I got the gist. Her name was Annisa, Fifi wasn’t there, and she was inviting me to wait.

“Fifi... late,” she said. “Me... sorry bad English... Annisa back later.” Then she gestured for me to follow her. “Room yours. You... make self at home.”

As I limped along behind her, I took in the apartment. It was massive - high ceilings, elegant furniture, gold accents everywhere. Definitely not a budget rental. Whoever lived here had serious money, and taste to match.

She led me to a room - presumably, a guest room - and then left, quietly closing the door behind her.

So here I am, sitting on the edge of the bed, my crippled feet finally free from those nightmarish heels as I try to massage some life back into my numb toes. I don’t dare lie down - I know I’ll pass out the second I do - so I'm journaling while I wait for Fifi to return home.

This was a day that will live long in the memory. The humiliating walk across Jakarta in women’s clothes. The fact that I somehow managed it in heels I wouldn’t have believed I could even stand up in beforehand. And now this - lingering in a stranger’s apartment, nervous and uneasy.

But if Fifi is here, perhaps my case is too. I can only hope that when she gets back, she understands why I had to borrow her things… and hopefully brings some good news with her.

Because honestly, I’m long overdue some.

David

March 9th

Dear Journal,

So it turns out I’m an idiot. A fool. An imbecile. Someone who absolutely should not be left to make important decisions unsupervised. The woman who answered the door yesterday? Her name isn't Annisa, it's Kartika. And what she was trying to tell me, in her polite yet broken English, was that her sister Annisa would be back later that night. Meaning Fifi isn’t here. She was never here!

This morning, I woke up in a luxurious bed but in a stranger’s apartment. Still in the same sweat-drenched clothes as yesterday, the wig crooked on my head, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and gulped. I’d only meant to rest my eyes while I waited for Fifi - but I must’ve passed out cold from sheer exhaustion.

With the sunlight spilling through the windows, I sat up groggily and tried to piece together what had happened. I swung my sore legs over the side of the bed and planted my feet into the thick carpet, trying to focus. I examined the room - tastefully decorated in calming tones, minimalist, but clearly expensive.

There were two other doors besides the one I’d entered through. One opened to a spotless en suite bathroom, all marble counters and fancy toiletries. The other? A walk-in closet overflowing with designer clothes, shelves of handbags, and a wall of high heels. All types. All terrifying.

I turned away from the wall of shoes, caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror, and groaned. I looked a total mess. My bruised, freshly shaven legs were sticking out from those painted-on leather shorts - still tight, even with the top button undone. The white blouse I’d slept in was now wrinkled and damp with sweat, and the toilet paper stuffed in the bra had shifted, leaving one fake breast sitting noticeably higher than the other.

Returning to the bed, I was suddenly struck with a sobering thought: where was Fifi? Why hadn't she come home last night?

I reached for my handbag, pulled out the letter, and read it again - this time with fresh eyes, thanks to what was probably the first proper sleep I’d had in days. And suddenly, details I’d missed before, stood out: voyage (a trip), six mois (six months), and the phrase échange culturel (cultural exchange).

My heart sank as a terrifying scenario flashed through my mind. What if Fifi was supposed to board the plane during my layover in Paris… but, for whatever reason, didn’t? I’d picked up her suitcase. The woman who lived here had been waiting for her arrival. And now - seeing as Fifi wasn’t here, and I was… Oh no!

Fuelled by adrenaline, I leapt up from the bed and scrambled to gather my borrowed belongings. With my handbag in one hand and those dreaded heels in the other, only one thought in my mind - escape.

I cracked the door open and peeked into the hallway. All clear. Quietly, carefully, I crept towards the front door. I was just a few steps from freedom when a soft voice drifted from one of the nearby rooms.

“Good morning, Fifi,” a woman called out, calm and cheerful.

I froze. My blood ran cold.

“I hope you slept well. You looked so comfortable when I checked in on you last night, I didn’t want to disturb you. Would you like some breakfast?”

Her words hung in the air, and I froze. My worst fears were playing out in real-time. My brain went into overdrive - how on earth was I going to explain that I wasn’t Fifi without sounding completely insane? Or worse, getting myself arrested?

Heart pounding, I slowly turned toward the voice.

Seated at a small round table in the living room was a striking young woman. Her straight, glossy black hair flowed neatly down her back, perfectly framing her delicate features. She wore a simple white top tucked into a coral-coloured skirt, paired with cork wedge sandals - the toe straps matching the skirt's hue almost exactly.

Her eyes sparkled with genuine warmth, a soft smile playing on her lips. I’ll never forget how she looked in that moment - something about it burned itself into my memory. I knew I’d have to sketch it later. As our eyes met, a strange sense of calm settled over me, her smile steady and unshaken.

(See image 09)

So, how did I react, you might be wondering? Did I make a run for it? Did I blurt out a panicked apology and try to explain everything?

Nope.

I got completely distracted by the smell of French toast wafting in from the kitchen… and made yet another stupid decision.

"Hi, yes, I'd love some breakfast," I heard myself say in a weirdly high-pitched voice - complete with a cringe-worthy French accent. Don’t ask me why. I think my stomach made that decision for me.

The next half-hour flew by in a blur of delicious food, polite conversation, and way too many questions. She introduced herself as Annisa and explained that the woman I met the night before was her sister, Kartika.

She asked where I’d been all week, and I told her about my missing suitcase, phone, and passport, and how I’d only just found their address yesterday. Which, okay, is technically true… just with a few crucial details conveniently left out. Like, say, my name and gender.

She frowned upon hearing my story, visibly upset that something like this had happened in her country. She kept apologising, insisting she’d help however she could. Then she offered me a day to rest and “recompose” myself - her word, not mine.

She also offered full access to her closet and even suggested I use the building's spa facilities to help unwind. I politely declined everything she suggested apart from the bath. Mostly because she insisted, and I didn’t have the energy to argue.

So yes, I had a bubble bath. With rose petals. And I emerged smelling like a spring meadow and feeling just a little less like my life was collapsing. Temporarily, at least.

I spent the rest of the day holed up in the room - Fifi’s room - trying to figure out what on earth my next move should be. But instead of a plan, all I managed to build was a mountain of anxiety and a thick layer of guilt.

Dinner was… weird. The three of us sat together, though I barely spoke. Kartika and Annisa chatted and laughed like everything was completely normal. I just kind of sat there, awkward and quiet, nodding at appropriate moments. Their easy sisterly bond made me ache for Ani. God, I miss her.

Now I’m back in the room, writing this down while the world outside keeps turning like nothing’s wrong. It’s strange. This place is beautiful. Peaceful. The kind of apartment people fantasise about staying in. But for me, it feels like a prison of my own making. A luxurious, air-conditioned cell lined with high heels and feminine clothes.

Annisa says she’ll help me track down my suitcase. And once we find it - I’ll come clean - about everything. I just hope they believe me when I say I never meant to mislead anyone. I just got swept up in a situation I didn’t know how to fix.

Hopefully, tomorrow brings some answers. Or at least a break in the chaos.

Good night, Journal.

David

March 10th

Dear Journal,

There’s this awful knot in my stomach that just won’t go away. It’s been tightening all day, getting worse by the hour. I feel completely trapped - not by walls or locks, but by the mess I’ve landed myself in. The more I think about it, the worse it seems, like being lost in a maze and not knowing which way to turn.

I’ve thought about running. Just slipping out and disappearing. But then what? I’d be alone, broke, and with nowhere to go. The British embassy might be an option… but could I seriously walk in there wearing women’s clothes? No, thank you. The stares, the questions - once my story got out, I’d probably end up on the evening news as some sort of cautionary tale.

This morning, I tried to stay out of sight - hoping that if I avoided Annisa and Kartika long enough, maybe this whole mess would magically untangle itself. Of course, it didn’t.

Around 11 am, just as the quiet was starting to feel almost comfortable, there was a soft knock at the door - followed by Annisa’s bright, cheerful voice calling out. My stomach dropped. In a blind panic, I scrambled for the wig and yanked it on - probably crooked - just as the door began to creak open.

Annisa stepped in, looking effortlessly beautiful. She wore a baby pink crop top that showed off her midriff, paired with high-waisted denim shorts dotted with tiny white flowers. Her long legs seemed to go on forever, ending in delicate strappy heels that showed off her perfectly manicured toes. A dainty heart-shaped pendant hung around her neck, catching the light as it rested against her collarbone.

And then there was me—sitting awkwardly in borrowed sleepwear. A pale pink satin nightgown, with lace trim and a stupid little bow at the chest. It hung shapelessly on my frame, doing nothing to hide the fact that I was very much not the girl I was pretending to be. I could barely meet her eyes. How could she not see I was a fraud?

Annisa floated into the room, settling beside me on the bed like we were old friends. Strangely… her presence was calming. As she started talking, my pulse finally began to slow.

The conversation that followed was as surreal as it was awkward. She asked how I was feeling, and what I thought of Jakarta so far. Slipping back into that offensively bad French accent, I explained how my 'unfortunate' situation had kept me from seeing much of the city so far.

To my horror, that little comment lit a spark in her eyes. She was suddenly full of energy, insisting we change that - insisting we go out and explore. I tried to decline, to make up an excuse, but she wouldn’t hear it.

Suddenly, she jumped up from the bed, chattering away about her favourite brunch spot downtown as she disappeared into the walk-in closet. Moments later, she reappeared with an armful of white and green fabric. My mouth went dry.

She told me my outfit from yesterday was being laundered, so I’d be borrowing something of hers for the day. She laid the clothes out neatly on the bed while I did my best to hide the look of horror creeping onto my face. A lightweight white vest top - “perfect for the heat,” she said. A long, ankle-length green skirt—chosen, apparently, to hide the scrapes and bruises on my legs. And then, a matching pastel green bra and panty set. No explanation offered. None needed.

And then, as if things couldn't get any worse, she retrieved the platform sandals I’d worn the day before - the very same pair that had shredded my feet and made every step feel like a living hell as I slowly tottered my way across the city. She placed them on the floor in front of me with a bright smile. “I just love your shoes,” she said, "they're super cute.'"

My stomach dropped. Those shoes weren't cute, they were pure evil. Unstable, sky-high, and built for someone far more graceful than me. And now they were apparently mine. Horrifyingly, my only pair of shoes!

After Annisa had finished with me, she positioned me in front of the mirror - and I could barely look. There I was, head to toe in borrowed femininity, my wig brushed and styled, a swipe of lip gloss on my lips and a little blush on my cheeks. My first time wearing makeup, and it felt strange. I barely recognised myself. But I went along with her plan. What else could I do?

We rode into the heart of Jakarta in the back of a chauffeur-driven car. I spent the whole ride trying not to hyperventilate.

At brunch, I sat stiffly, barely touching my food. My palms were sweating, my eyes darting around the crowded café. It felt like everyone was staring at me. Judging. Laughing. I rambled about life in France - half-remembered facts from school, movies, whatever came to mind. The web of lies was getting thicker by the second.

But Annisa just smiled and nodded, completely charmed.

I honestly don’t know how I made it through.

After brunch, we wandered the city centre, ducking into little boutiques and weaving through packed market stalls. Annisa floated along in her heels like it was nothing. I, on the other hand, hobbled beside her in my platforms, doing my best not to trip and die.

Every step was torture. My feet throbbed. My calves burned. I could practically feel the blisters forming.

Eventually, we stopped by a fountain in a busy square. I collapsed onto a stone step, legs trembling, feet on fire, completely done. When I looked up, Annisa was watching me. Her smile had faltered, just a little, and something in her eyes had shifted - disappointment? Pity? I couldn’t tell.

(See image 10)

Now, back in Fifi’s room, I’m trying to make sense of everything. It’s only been a little over a week since I landed here, but it feels like a lifetime. So much has happened - and none of it good. I just need to get my suitcase back, and fast, before days like today become my every day. Before the girly outfits, the stares, and the aching feet become my new normal.