I had been worried that I wouldn't be able to recognise him, but my eyes land on the tall, lanky guy in a black beanie the moment I plunge into the rush of cold air outside. His gaze had already been fixed on the entrance to the train station, but what gives him away is the way he is frowning, as if he's waiting for someone he isn't quite sure of.

Our eyes meet. I can see the uncertain recognition that lights his face.

I walk briskly towards him.

"Juhani?" I ask when I'm within earshot, even though I'm already sure.

He smiles. "Yes." He sticks out his hand for a shake. "Juhani Laukkanen. Hei."

"Hei," I reply. "Emilie Hoffmann. Nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too," he says.

"Or maybe we should speak in German?" I say, with a cheeky quirk of my eyebrow.

The way his face freezes makes me laugh. He grimaces, "Maybe not yet."

"So," I say, pushing my hands into my coat as a chilly gust of wind brushes past me. "Where should we go?"

"There's a café within walking distance," Juhani says, ducking his head so that he can look me in the face. All the Finnish guys I've met are so tall. Aksel always had to bend over a little to look into my eyes, too.

I blink away the turn my thoughts have taken. "Sure," I nod, gesturing for Juhani to lead the way.

With everything else that has been going on in the past few weeks, I had almost forgotten about Essi from the bakery in Töölö. I had given even less thought to her offer of sending my number along to her friend, the one she had told me about. The one who had been looking for a German tutor.

But she had come through. Two days ago, her friend Juhani had texted me an enquiry, which I then responded with an offer for a trial session. He will be paying me for one session at market price, before we decide if the arrangement suited both of us well.

The small café he takes me to is the perfect cozy place for a study session. Swallowing the butterflies fluttering about in the region of my throat, I follow him to a table and slide into the chair.

He is jittery, too. "Do you want to order first?" he asks. I can see his Adam's Apple bobbing.

"We can go together," I say, looking around. There are still several empty seats available.

He shrugs and gets up. He casts a glance at the table, then around the café. "I'll leave my bag here. Nobody will take it."

When we return to the table with our drinks – a coffee for him, an earl grey for me – I clear my throat and say, "Did you bring your textbook?"

He nods. It takes him a while to place his coffee mug onto the table. I watch him the whole time, noting how he moves in a slow, relaxed manner. They're both Finnish, but he is so different from Aksel.

Reaching into his bag, he finally pulls out the book, laying it on the table in between us.

I smile at him. "Let's begin, then. May I?" At his nod, I open the book and flip through it, hoping that he can't see my fingers shake just that little bit.

***

By the end of the ninety minutes, Juhani has shed his original reserve.

"You're a godsend, you know," my student declares. He flashes me a quick smile even as he flips his textbook shut and begins packing up the rest of his things.

His overstatement sends a blush rising on my cheeks, and I smile awkwardly at him to hide my embarrassment.

"I'm serious," he insists. "I thought I was done for, until Essi told me she met someone who could help."

"I'm glad you think that was helpful," I say. "I take it you'd like to continue, then?"

"Please." He says this so fervently that I have to laugh. "You have to teach me. My German is complete shit."

"It's not," I say, even though I'm just being polite. He barely has the foundations down. He is going to need a lot of revision – especially with grammatical structures and vocabulary. We will need to start from scratch. My mind is already buzzing, wondering what exercises we can start with. I've never thought about teaching the language, but today has shown me that it's not as tedious as it might have sounded. I will have to look up and compare different pedagogical methods. "But we will definitely work on your weaker points."

He grimaces. "Which is everything. I probably have to study my ass off to be able to do well in class. I failed the last test."

"Don't worry, I'll help with that," I reassure him. "We'll start from the beginning and move our way up. It will take some time, but you'll be ready for your exams."

"I hope so."

"Maybe we should start off twice a week," I suggest. "Just to see how you feel about that. If it's too much, we could cut it down to once a week."

"That's a good idea," he says. "I don't mind. I need the practice, anyway."

"Great."

"Okay," he says, "so it's twice a week starting from... next week?"

I shrug. "I can start anytime. I'm quite free." I laugh to show that I'm not as desperate as my words may make me sound.

"What about Thursday, then?"

"That works for me."

He smiles. "Cool. We should discuss how payment works. Weekly? Monthly? Is it okay if we stick to these rates?"

"No problem," I say. I'm just starting out, after all. The rates he had quoted for this trial session have been more than decent. "Maybe weekly payments would be good?" I end off on a questioning tone, unsure if this makes me look less professional. Do tutors usually get paid weekly? I have no idea. But I do need the money.

My student either doesn't register or doesn't care about my barely-hidden struggle.

"Sure. I can transfer you the money if you want. Unless cash is better?"

"MobilePay is fine," I say, naming one of the money transfer apps used in Finland. "It's more convenient that way."

Juhani raises his eyebrows. I'm not sure if he's surprised that I know about MobilePay or that I've read his mind. "I agree. Okay, I'll send you the money for today's session now." His fingers fly over his smartphone screen, already keying in the necessary details. "There it is."

I check my phone and see that the money is already in. "Thanks," I say, smiling back, feeling a thrill up my spine. "I'll see you next week, same time, same place, then? You can always text if you have to reschedule."

"Of course. See you. And, again, thank you." The last two words are repeated in such a heart-felt tone that I laugh and duck my head to hide my warming face.

As I exit the café, I can't help but fiddle with my phone again, clicking the screen on and off. Here it is – the first money I've earned all on my own in Helsinki.

It's not much, but it is something of a beginning.

***

"It was actually fun," I say to my phone.

"You sound surprised," Gabi teases. I can see the image of her lean forward as she speaks to me. Tessa, squeezed up beside her so they can both fit into my screen, snorts out a laugh.

"No," I start to deny it, then stop and shrug sheepishly. "Okay, maybe I am, a little. I never thought teaching would be so interesting."

"Maybe you've found your calling," Tessa laughs again. She's joking, but I purse up my lips, considering the idea.

It wouldn't be too bad. It could be a source of income – at least until I figure out what I want to do. If I end up really liking it, I could even look into getting officially certified as a German teacher.

The idea is suddenly flourishing, blooming into a path that leads somewhere into the future.

"Hm," I say.

"Try it out for now," Gabi says. "If you enjoy it... why not? It could be a good career path."

"What did I study so much chemistry for, then?" I sulk.

This time, the laughter comes from both of my friends.

"Oh, come on," says Tessa. "Getting a job is not always about what you studied. It's also about what you like."

"Remember Hanna?" Gabi adds, naming one of our old school friends. "Plenty of people who studied accountancy end up disliking it and went on to find jobs in other fields."

"What's Hanna working as now, then?" I want to know. I remember the meek, bespectacled girl from our year. I would've thought that accountancy would suit her to a T.

Gabi shrugs, turning to Tessa for confirmation. Tessa is frowning. "I think," she says slowly, "I heard that she went into Marketing or something."

"I only know that she quit her job at Goldman Sachs," Gabi says.

"Probably suffered from burnout," Tessa guesses wisely. "It's tiring, working there."

"That was such a prestigious job, though," I say.

Gabi shrugs again. "If you don't like something, you don't like it."

"True."

A silence blankets the space between us as we all ponder this.

Finally, Gabi says, "But Emi – don't overthink it. You don't have to make a career choice right now, you should just see how it goes."

She's right. "Yeah," I say, "I'll see how it goes with Juhani. Anyway, I only have one student." I laugh. "I'm not going to get more anytime soon. It's just interesting to me, I guess, to pick out some of the mistakes he makes in German and understand he's making them because of the way it's said in Finnish."

"Really?" Tessa is intrigued by this. "Like what?"

"For example..." I pause, casting around in my memory for an anecdote that fits. "For example, Finnish doesn't differentiate between 'he' or 'she'. And neither does English for inanimate objects. That's why he always forgets that everything has a gender in German – when he uses pronouns for objects, he always says 'it'."

Tessa ponders this, but Gabi is already nodding. I know she has the opposite problem – she is always referring to lists as 'she' and films as 'he' in English.

"Interesting," Tessa says, and I can tell she really means it. "Your knowledge of all these languages can help you analyse his mistakes more clearly."

"But, of course," I add, "I still have a long way to go with my Finnish. Learning a new language is hard. So I get it. And I think it makes me want to help him more."

"That's good," says Gabi. "You can see things from both the teacher's and student's points of view. That would make you a good teacher."

I demur, waving a hand dismissively. We still don't know if I'll make a good teacher. It will take time to find out.

"Speaking of teachers, how are the private lessons from Elina going?" Tessa asks. "I bet you are really good at Finnish by now."

"They're not really lessons, per se," I say, because that makes me sound like I'm bunking free classes off Elina. "More like revision for the classes I missed, from before."

Tessa rolls her eyes to show me what she thinks of my unnecessary explanation. "And?" she presses impatiently.

"And... I don't know." I shrug. "It's coming along, I guess. I'm still not that good at a lot of Finnish grammar, though. The different cases drive me crazy sometimes."

"How many cases do they have?" Tessa asks. "I heard they have way more than we do."

"Fifteen," I say, making a face to show what I think of that.

Gabi raises her eyebrows. "Fifteen cases," she repeats slowly, then laughs. "Wow. Imagine that. We even complain about having four."

"Their cases are structured differently, too," I say. "They tack things onto the words to make up the cases, so if you can't differentiate between the cases, you'd think it was a different word entirely."

I remember something that Elina had said to explain the basics of Finnish grammar to me on one of our first private sessions together.

"Finnish is a really precise language," I add. "It's quite interesting, actually, because you could have just one word that can convey all sorts of things. It feels," I pause to pick out a word that fits this description, "richer, somehow. A lot more concise."

"I have no idea what you mean," Tessa admits.

"Like..." I frown, anxious in my haste to explain. "For example, 'to say' is sanoa. We have the infinitive form in German too, right?" I barely wait for Tessa and Gabi to nod in acknowledgement. "But when a person is saying something, we have to form whole clauses to describe it – when you say. In Finnish, you can just say one word to describe that action. Sanoessasi."

"And that one word means 'when you say'?"

"Yes." Then I stop and scrunch up my nose. "At least, I think it does." I laugh. "I hope I'm right. I don't want to be teaching you guys the wrong things."

When I look into the screen, I see Tessa and Gabi exchanging looks.

"Maybe I didn't explain it very well," I hurry to add. Maybe they don't understand. I am hardly the expert on Finnish grammar, after all.

Tessa's laugh cuts through my lamentation.

"You know what, Emi?" she declares, cupping her cheek and cocking her head to look straight into the camera, "Even though you always talk about how hard it is or that you're not so good at it, I think you are starting to get the hang of Finnish."

***

I'm on my way home from the second session with Juhani when it happens.

"Hei!" I hear a deep voice yell at me, which should have been my first inkling that it is someone I don't want anything to do with.

My steps falter. I look around at the man who is sauntering my way. He doesn't look drunk, but I do smell the pungent, sickly scent that's emitting from him. "Hei."

He looks at me – squints, really – for a long moment. The corners of his mouth turn slightly downwards as he takes in my features. "Ah," he says, as if a question he hadn't asked has been answered.

I stand, patiently waiting for him to say something or move on.

"You speak English?" He asks me slowly – offensively, over-enunciating his words as if that makes him easier to understand. It doesn't, because it makes him sound worse than a robot.

"Yes," I snap, "I speak English." Then I clamp my mouth shut to stop the stream of words I might have pushed out just to prove how well I can speak English.

I have nothing to prove to the likes of him.

"Okay, lady," he says, laughing. "No need to be so touchy."

I start to walk away.

"Hey!" He shouts from behind me. When I don't turn around, I hear him call out, "You should learn to speak Finnish if you want to live here."

The fury in me boils over.

"And if you want to live," I say, "you should learn to shut up."

I'm not shouting, and I don't bother looking back, so I have no idea if he's even heard me. But I hear nothing more from him as I walk on ahead.

Instinctively, I reach for my phone and pull up a new message. My thumb hovers over the keyboard on-screen. But then I stop.

Who am I going to text about this? Priscilla? Zuzi? One of the guys?

Aksel?

How would they understand? They wouldn't. Priscilla has been understanding about my experiences with Aksel, but even she wouldn't know why a simple interaction like this has set me off. The stranger, despite exhibiting a slew of stereotypes, had not shouted anything explicit at me. Maybe some of them would even say I'm overreacting now.

What is it that Aksel always used to say? He said that I care too much about what people think of me. That what they think doesn't matter; I know who I am, and that's all that matters.

Slowly, I return the phone to my pocket.

Ranting wouldn't help. What I need is to let them understand.

All the way home, conversations that I've had with Aksel, Priscilla and the others, and even my mother are playing through my mind. Even my mother, who best understands everything I've gone through, has admitted that my story is different from hers. My experiences here, the way I feel about everything that has happened – are all my own.

But I don't want to be alone in this anymore. I am suddenly, desperately craving the connection that comes with being understood. I want my friends to understand.

I'm still thinking about this as I let myself in through the front door of my apartment. As I put my bag down, and unwind my scarf. I wander across the room and stop at my desk. Then I boot up my laptop.

I don't stand there and wait as it whirs into life. I bustle around the apartment, heading into the kitchen to check for the ingredients I need to cook dinner. Spaghetti and a bit of ham. I shrug, placing the items on the counter. They will have to do.

While the spaghetti is boiling in the pot, I wander back over to the laptop.

I open up the document, scrolling through it. I haven't looked at it since typing it up last weekend, but, as I scan through it, I find myself nodding at the narrative. I had originally meant to write only about my feelings for Aksel, but it had snowballed into something else entirely as my emotions flowed through my fingers onto the keyboard. Now, as I read through the words, all I see is... my life.

It is a story that talks about my experience in Helsinki in comparison with my experiences in Hamburg. It talks about how my strangeness feels amplified now, here in a foreign place whose language I can't speak. It talks about the insignificant incidents that pile up to remind me of how much I don't belong. The things people have said. The looks people have given me. And it talks about the loneliest thing of all – living with Aksel but being unable to express all of this to him. The way we struggled; the way our relationship broke down as a result. The way I am now in limbo – with him, with my place in Helsinki. With my life.

It contains everything that I want to say, that I can say, without saying it.

Minimising the window, I open a new email. The cursor blinks in the addressee's field as I input the names. Priscilla. Then – Zuzi, because she would make a fuss if I only sent it to Priscilla. And then Ludo and Frederik, because it wouldn't be fair to leave them out.

We're your friends, Zuzi had said.

In a decisive moment of bravado, I attach the document in the email and hit send with a hard, terrifying click.