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Becoming Fifi - 22
🕑 Added 2025-06-16 18:31:15 +0000 UTCApril 3rd
Dear Journal,
Another week has flown by in this circus show I now call my life. Every morning, I secretly hope to wake up from this drawn-out nightmare - but with each dawn comes the same cruel truth. April Fool’s Day came and went without a punchline - just the ongoing reality of what my life has become. No reset. No escape. Just another tiring shift at Annisa’s wedding boutique, tottering around as Fifi - the prissy, high-heeled fashionista I'm trapped pretending to be.
Out there, the world keeps spinning, completely unaware of what I’m going through. I miss the boring parts of my old life - the monotonous work shifts, the dull nighttime family routine, even the constant sense of going nowhere. Back then, I thought I was stuck. Turns out, I didn’t know what being stuck felt like.
Still, I’ve found ways to keep myself sane. Little things to stay busy - to keep my mind from going to places it shouldn’t. One unexpected outlet has been my French lessons with Annisa. We sit together, day after day, reciting verbs, tripping over pronunciations, and giggling at the awkward bits. In those moments, I momentarily forget my worries - and feel... dare I say it... normal.
To be fair, she’s getting pretty good. And surprisingly? So am I. I guess four hours a night of cramming will do that to you. But once the textbooks are closed and my bedroom door clicks shut, I'm left alone with Fifi, staring back at me from every reflective surface. And if I can’t escape her, I’ve accepted that I have to embrace her.
This week, I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time studying her reflection, experimenting with makeup, trying to perfect the illusion. Every coat of mascara, every swipe of contour - it’s all part of the mask I hide behind. Because if I’m going to survive this… I can’t get caught now. I don’t even want to imagine what that would mean!
If I haven’t mentioned it yet, my feet are still a disaster. Morning and night, I massage them, hoping they’ll start to remember how to be normal. There hasn’t been much improvement, but I can now force them into a few more pairs of towering heels. The row of shoes I can actually walk in keeps growing beneath my bed - a depressing kind of milestone. But hey, progress is progress… right?
Today’s drawing captures a memory of my first solo interaction with a customer. In it, I’m wearing a flared, galaxy-print minidress. The thick, patterned fabric swirled and fluttered around my thighs all day as I clomped up and down the shop floor on a pair of baby-blue platform sandals. The shoes - though still ridiculously tall - were a welcome break from my usual torturous spikes. With their broader heels and soft cloth straps hugging my stiff, uncooperative feet, they offered a little more support and less rubbing.
(See image 22)
It was while wearing this girly ensemble - straightening and organising a rack of wedding gowns - that I heard a voice behind me ask for help. Startled, I turned to find a woman, probably in her late twenties, smiling at me with an expectant look. And I reacted just as you would imagine - I panicked! Annisa was suddenly nowhere to be seen, which meant I was alone in the boutique. Just me… and an expectant customer.
When the silence dragged on a little too long, she asked if I worked there. And somehow - surprisingly - I slipped right into the role. "Yes, how may I assist you today?" I said, calm and professional, like I’d been doing this for years. We chatted about her preferences, and her wedding theme, and before I knew it, I’d offered her refreshments - just like I’d seen Annisa do countless times.
When Annisa finally returned, she gave me a strange look - part pride, part disbelief. Thankfully, she took over from there, but later, as we were closing up, she shared the customer’s feedback. “She said you were wonderfully helpful,” Annisa told me, her eyes twinkling. “And she also said you looked adorable in that dress. Said it suited you perfectly.”
Her words were meant to be kind - reassuring, even - but instead, they stung.
It hit me then, Journal: I’d let myself slip into the role of Fifi far too easily. The character I created just to survive this mess… she’s starting to feel almost as real as David ever was. And that terrifies me.
But what scares me even more is how, these days, David is the one fading into the background - only resurfacing for the occasional phone call home, when someone needs to hear his voice. The rest of the time, it’s all Fifi. My thoughts are consumed with which top goes best with which skirt… or whether a certain handbag pairs better with a coral lip or a soft pink.
Are those my thoughts? Or hers?
I honestly don’t know anymore.
