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Becoming Fifi - 27
🕑 Added 2025-09-01 14:52:01 +0000 UTCApril 15th
So, Journal, Annisa’s been at it again—playing matchmaker.
The day started early, with the two of us setting up a wedding venue inside one of Jakarta’s swankiest hotels. The ballroom glittered under massive crystal chandeliers, their light scattering across the marble like something out of a movie. It was easy to get caught up in the grandeur, but the to-do list kept me firmly on task: tables needed aligning to Annisa’s impossibly high standards, flowers had to be arranged in perfect symmetry, and the staff needed a thorough briefing. It was all hands on deck, the air filled with a murmur of voices and the sharp click-clack of high heels echoing through the space.
Speaking of which, my feet are finally flexible enough to squeeze back into my Biancas. “Oh joy. Oh rapture.” Bitter sarcasm, of course. It was a bittersweet moment as I slipped the towering heels back onto my crippled feet. Stiff, offering barely any support and always one wrong step away from a twisted ankle, these shoes are always a challenge. However, they’re also a marker. Proof that I’m edging back toward the version of myself I used to be. And admittedly, they did match my outfit flawlessly.
It turned out to be a day of tottering around the hall like some prissy, dolled-up hostess, dishing out polite smiles, refilling glasses where needed, and sneaking the occasional eye roll when no one was looking. The weight of responsibility pressed down just as heavily as the pain rising up my calves, and by the end of the ceremony, I was running on fumes. Naturally, that’s when Annisa decided to strike.
“Fifi,” she chirped, eyes sparkling, “let’s grab a drink on the way home. Celebrate the success of today!”
My heart sank. I’d spent the last few hours dreaming of peeling off the Biancas, sinking into a hot bath, and passing out. But her unstoppable enthusiasm—and the simple fact that I had no way of getting home on my own—made resistance futile. I nodded and squeaked out a, ‘That sounds lovely,’ before she added, ‘I’ve just got a quick errand to run first. You go on ahead. I’ll tell the driver where to drop you, then I’ll meet you there shortly.’
And just like that, I was whisked off to God knows where in the back of her luxury car, the motion lulling me into a daze. The ride ended in front of yet another towering hotel, its marble façade gleaming under the low evening sun. The driver opened the door, and out I came—legs swinging with rehearsed poise, lips fixed in a glossy smile—while a sharp ache shot up my calves the instant my heels struck the pavement, their loud click grating on my nerves. With what little grace I could muster, I thanked the chauffeur and minced toward the entrance.
I managed only four or five steps before a male voice called out, making me stumble and nearly lose my balance. ‘Fifi.’ My head whipped toward the source—and there, not twenty feet away, stood Kevin.
So you can picture the scene, here is a drawing of how I looked in that ‘deer caught in the headlights’ moment—teetering on sky-high heels and trapped inside an intricately designed short lace dress. Every ounce of my being screamed femininity, from the gentle sway of my pin-straight wig cascading over my shoulder to the way the dress’s silky inner slip swished softly with each nervous breath. ‘Of all the times to look dressed for a date,’ I mused ruefully, painfully aware of my makeup—long glued-on faux eyelashes, dramatic eyeliner, and glossed lips—erasing any trace of my male features and fooling Kevin into thinking all the effort I’d put into looking presentable for the event that day was for him!
(See image 27)
Gathering my composure, I inched slowly towards Kevin, every step feeling like a betrayal of who I really was. His eyes were wide with astonishment and—God help me—something that made my stomach flip: desire.
Kevin, usually the picture of confidence, suddenly looked like an overexcited puppy. Before I could even work out what to do, he stepped forward and kissed my cheek, soft and deliberate. “You look… beautiful,” he whispered, his voice catching.
I was too stunned to do anything but mumble a thank you. Somehow, I let him take my lace-covered arm and steer me through the lobby and into the elevator. Moments later, we stepped out onto a rooftop cocktail bar, the sun sinking low and casting the city in gold. Fairy lights shimmered overhead, and a piano played softly in the background. For a woman on a date, it would have been a dream. For me, it was a nightmare. All I could think about was finding an excuse to leave, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it—not when it would break his heart. None of this was his fault; it was Annisa’s doing, not his.
To his credit, Kevin soon dialled back compliments and slipped into the role of perfect gentleman. The nerves eased. Conversation came surprisingly easily. We talked about the latest Premier League fixtures, argued over RPG strategies from a game I’d finished last year, and even shared a favourite indie band. Against all odds—against all common sense—I found myself enjoying his company.
And yet, even as I smiled and nodded, my mind kept circling back to Annisa. Ever meddlesome, always full of surprises. Did she set this up as a joke, or did she honestly believe there could be something between Kevin and me? The thought was ridiculous. And yet, one reckless idea flickered before I crushed it: What if I did date Kevin? The notion was so absurd it almost made me laugh. After all, beneath all the lace and makeup, I was still David—just an ordinary guy in disguise. It had to be the ambience of the evening, or the sheer exhaustion, pushing my thoughts into such nonsense.
When the night finally wound down, Kevin walked me to the car. He hugged me, pressed another kiss to my cheek, and wished me goodnight. I slid into the back seat, the door clicking shut like the final note in a song I never wanted to hear. As the driver merged into Jakarta’s endless stream of lights and traffic, I stared out the window, feeling lost and confused. My life no longer felt like my own—and after a night like this, the memory of flipping burgers felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
