Becoming Fifi - 21

March 29th

Hello again, old friend,

Sorry for my absence. I couldn’t face writing these past few days. It’s been three days of quiet misery, holed up in my room, trying to come to terms with a future spent atop heels so tall, that even a catwalk model might refuse to wear them. My thoughts kept looping in circles, and every time I looked down at my feet - unnaturally arched and pointing stiffly toward the wall - I felt like I might scream.

Annisa, thankfully, left me alone. She must’ve sensed I needed space - and I’m grateful for that, because if she hadn’t, I probably would’ve said something I’d regret. Still, the days dragged on, slow and heavy, until time itself felt like it had stopped, leaving me feeling completely alone and adrift.

But today… today was different.

Mid-afternoon, Annisa barged into my room, all cheerful energy and determined smiles. She announced we were going out - and that was that. "You’ve been inside too long," she said. “It’s not healthy.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue. So I got up, showered, slapped on some makeup, and let her drag me back out into the world.

Soon, I was slumped in the back of the chauffeur-driven car, staring blankly out the window. I’d dressed in a long-sleeved black dress - it's colour hardly incidental, as it perfectly mirrored the gloom I felt inside while mourning the loss of my masculinity. My rigid feet were, once again, supported by those tall, spiky heels. They helped me to walk, though only in tiny, mincing steps that made me feel like a wind-up doll toy Ani once had as a kid.

Annisa’s plan for the day started, as usual, with shopping. We visited a flurry of her favourite stores, and through it all, she kept apologising. Promising she’d help me find a selection of shoes I truly loved. Her intentions were pure, Journal, I know that. But still… I couldn’t help feeling angry at her for what she’d done to me.

The rest of the day then became a blur of shimmering boutiques and glossy showrooms, each one stacked high with towers of shoeboxes and echoing with the sound of my hesitant, wobbly laps around their polished floors. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of heels, pumps, and sandals - each more extravagant, delicate, and wildly impractical than the last.

And the irony? Out of everything I tried on, the only pair we ended up buying - the only ones that felt even remotely wearable on my mangled, high-heel-dependent feet - were almost identical to the pair I’d worn out that day. The only difference? These had gold spikes instead of black ones, and a peep-toe front that exposed my shiny white toenails.

So, with my new shoes on and a face that made no effort to hide my frustration, our next stop was a nearby wine bar. Annisa knew the owner and insisted a drink would help me unwind. She wasn’t wrong. Three large glasses of Pinot Grigio later, I found myself loosening up, my anger momentarily softened by a warm, tipsy haze. But the buzz didn’t last. And unless I plan on becoming a full-blown alcoholic, wine isn’t going to be my way out of this mess.

Still, there was a moment - clear, vivid, and a little disorienting - that I had to capture in a sketch. I remember looking down at my velvety smooth legs emerging from beneath the short hem of my clingy, off-the-shoulder black dress. They looked endless, elegant, and undeniably feminine before finally stopping at a pair of absurdly tall heels. And in that moment, I remember thinking.

It's finally happened!

I’ve become Fifi!

(See image 21)

We talked as we sipped our wine - about the weather, celebrity gossip, fashion. Inconsequential things, but at least we were talking again. I know I need to find a way to forgive her. She wasn’t trying to hurt me. That cream, that damned miracle gel, was supposed to ease the pain in my feet, not lock them into this awful, arched position. She meant well. She just didn’t think it through. And as much as I want to stay angry, the truth is… she’s all I’ve got now.

All in all, it was a tiring, trying day - and tomorrow won’t be any better. I’ll be back in the boutique, slipping once more into the role of a perfect little shop assistant: all smiles and hidden torment. Because as much as I’ve been trying to deny it, this is my life now: working in a bridal store, halfway across the world, dressed in short skirts and sky-high heels, forced to act as sweet and feminine as possible just to keep up the charade

But before then, a night of broken sleep lies ahead. It’s getting late, and with an early start looming, I’ll soon be forced to at least try to rest. Beside my bed, my new shoes lay in wait - their gold spikes menacingly catching the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Necessary, of course, in case I need to use the bathroom during the night. It’s a thought that would almost be funny… if it weren’t so depressingly true.

And so I’ll lie there, staring at the ceiling, the heels watching me like silent sentinels, dreading the sound of the morning alarm. I know what’s coming - another day of pretending, another day of girly gestures and nervous giggling. But first, I’ll pull the covers over my head, shut my eyes, and try - just for a few hours - to forget who I’ve become.Top of Form