The regret set in almost immediately after we bade each other goodbye. That night, Aksel walked me back to my apartment, even thought we'd only spoken lightly along the way. The heaviest part of the conversation was over. Aksel has said what he had to say – the ball is in my court now. Everything I still have left to say is in that essay.

So, naturally, I put off sending it out. It sits in the folder on my laptop... and smoulders.

I let it sit for another week.

Aksel and I have started texting again, innocuous daily messages that have forgotten the kiss and the hand-holding.

A picture of the weather forecast set at 11 degrees Celsius. Warm today, he would type as a caption.

In response, I send a picture of the 30-degree-weather in Hamburg from a particularly warm summer day earlier in the year. THIS is warm – and a cheeky emoji.

He sends back a row of cry-laughing emojis. We're laughing at our differences now.

But he doesn't ask about the essay, doesn't even hint at it.

It would be so easy to pretend to forget. He may not even bring it up again. Or maybe he has forgotten. But there is a small, perverse part of me that wants him to read it. Even if I can't muster up the courage to send it to him.

"It's hard," Priscilla commiserates, when I tell her about my dilemma over lunch. It's just the two of us today, having lunch at her apartment before heading to class. It's a reminder of the days when we were living together, and something I look forward to every fortnight.

It's also the only time I feel safe enough to talk about Aksel. Sure – the others are my friends, too, but Zuzi makes too big a deal out of everything. It makes me shy away from telling her my true feelings. It's different with Priscilla, though. Priscilla sits and listens and doesn't bring it up after.

"It's like he still cares," I muse aloud, "but he doesn't want to do anything about it anymore. When we had dinner, we talked about all this heavy stuff... but never once about that night in Kallio."

"Hm," says Priscilla. "Maybe he's scared."

"Scared of what?" I've never known Aksel to be scared. I'm the one who's terrified of so many things. He's always taken things in his stride in a way that I've often admired.

"Maybe," says Priscilla, in a reaching tone that curls its tendrils around the words, "he's afraid of being rejected."

A long silence. Then I let out a strangled laugh. "Are you kidding?" I ask, tempering my voice so that it doesn't come out as a demand. Don't shoot the messenger, Emi. Priscilla is wrong, but she's trying to help. It's just a suggestion. "He was the one who rejected me."

Priscilla smiles, an expression born less out of mirth and more out of understanding. "Yeah," she says, "he did. But – it's like he said at your dinner that night – it looks like he felt rejected by you, too. Right?"

I feel my lips twist.

"Right," Priscilla answer in my stead. She raises her eyebrows, waiting. I huff.

"Fine," I say, the words creaking as if pried out of me. "It went both ways." The words I've once said to Aksel are coming back to haunt me – it takes two hands to clap.

"There you go," Priscilla says. "Wasn't so hard to admit, was it?"

I almost growl at her. "Whose side are you on?"

"Always yours," she declares, then cocks her head. "But that doesn't mean I can't be the voice of reason when I have to."

"Fine." I laugh despite my grumpiness. "Voice of reason, huh? How about calling yourself my fairy godmother?"

Her grin radiates the brilliance of a brand-new lightbulb right in my face. "You know what? That's the nicest thing anyone has ever called me."

I screw up my face, "I didn't say you were my fairy godmother, just that you'd probably love to call yourself that."

"Uh-uh," she wags a finger at me, "you can't take it back now."

"All right, then," I challenge. "If you're my fairy godmother, that means you can give a swish of your wand and fix all my problems, right? Turn a frog into a prince?" I spread my arms akimbo and turn my face upward, as if waiting for a miracle to fall from the sky – or, in this case, the ceiling.

Priscilla waves her hand in my direction. "My wand is invisible," she informs me haughtily. "Only magical beings – like myself –" here, she lays a gentle hand against her chest – "are able to see it."

"Not commoners like me?" I guess.

She nods. "Not commoners like you."

Then we both dissolve into giggles.

"Okay, okay," Priscilla wheezes finally, wiping a pretend tear from her eyes. "Let's eat – or we'll never get to class on time."

I wolf down my sandwich in three big gulps. "Done," I say, after I'm done choking it down. I cough to clear my throat of the remnants of dry bread. "Hurry up, slow poke."

"How do you do that?" Shaking her head at my lack of table manners, Priscilla turns to her own sandwich and takes a prim bite. But, try as she might, even she can't stop the tiny crumbs from flaking off the bread crust.

"So," I say, crossing my arms across my chest as I watch her take thrice the amount of time it took me to eat, "what did you fix with the wave of your wand? Are all my problems with Aksel gone now?"

She casts me a glance. "Maybe I've magicked Aksel away. All your problems with him would be gone then, wouldn't they?"

I open my mouth, then snap it shut. I know she's just kidding, but the idea of Aksel vanishing into thin air has stolen the breath from my lungs.

"Maybe, now that he's gone, you can find yourself another Finn." She wiggles her eyebrows at me, half in jest.

I roll my eyes. "I date one Finn, and people think I have some sort of fetish for Finnish guys." I keep my tone light-hearted, but mixed into my voice is very real exasperation.

It's not about his nationality. I'd fallen for Aksel because he was Aksel. The idea of replacing him with someone, even someone of the same culture, seems... ridiculous.

"Maybe," I say, my turn to waggle my eyebrows, "you should find a Finn for yourself." I toss it out like a joke, but I'm serious. I almost can't imagine Priscilla ending up with anyone but a Finn. She would assimilate into the culture so well. Her Finnish is already superb – she would be able to speak in Finnish with her partner's friends. All the things I wish I could've done.

"No!" Priscilla is laughing even as she huffs in indignation. "I was joking. Now who's the one making assumptions about the type of guys I want to date?"

"Who says it has to be a guy?" I deadpan.

Priscilla laughs. "True," she says. "Have you seen the girls in this country? They're all so pretty."

"I know," I lament. "I always feel so inadequate around them."

"Me too," she sighs. We are both silent for a minute, pondering this. An image of Lumi's fairy-like features has flashed into my mind. I shake my head to dislodge it.

"Do you want him back?" Priscilla asks, suddenly serious. I suspect she has picked up on the subtle shift in my mood.

Hearing the question thrown out in this straightforward manner – devoid of the levity that's cloaked all our mentions of Aksel thus far – makes me hesitate. Do I?

"I don't know," I say. It seems to be my default answer to important questions lately. Delving deep into my feelings and desires has never been my strongest suit.

"Well," muses Priscilla, tapping a finger against her chin, "it seems like the two of you can't stay away from each other. There's something that keeps pulling you back." She laughs, pressing her hands together in the shape of a wish. "To be honest, it feels almost like you're the main characters in a rom-com."

I can't help myself. I start giggling again.

Priscilla plants her hands on her hips, even though I can only see up to the crook of her elbows behind the table. "Hey! It's not that funny." But she's smiling, too.

"Okay, but," I say, "you've been telling me to stay away from Aksel since we broke up. That we can't be friends. And now it's like you're saying we belong together. That's a drastic change."

"Well," says Priscilla, "because you can't be just friends, can you? Look at what happened after a few drinks." She shrugs, pressing her lips together and scrunching up her forehead. "I thought you needed to stay away from him because I've seen how much he hurt you. But maybe what you two need is to work it out. I don't think you'll get any closure otherwise."

"Besides," she adds with a quick grin as I digest her words. "I believe in true love."

I raise my eyebrows, half in exaggeration, half truly surprised. "And you think we have that?"

I expect either a teasing reply or an idealistic one, but Priscilla looks at me for a long moment. Then she says, "Maybe. But it doesn't matter what I think. What do you think? Is he your one true love?"

A hiss of breath escapes between my clenched teeth. "I don't know if I believe in true love," I admit. "I think there are a few people who are compatible with us at any one point in our lives, that things can work out with... but I don't think there is any one true love for any of us."

Priscilla lets out a low hum. "We'll have to agree to disagree on this, then." She grins at me. "Isn't it ironic, though? You're the one with a fairytale romance, but you don't believe in true love. I'm the hopeless romantic, but I've never even come close to having any meaningful relationship."

"Fairytale romance?" I roll my eyes. Is that what she really thinks about me and Aksel? But I'm more curious about the latter part of her statement. "What do you mean, any meaningful relationship?"

I have been talking so much about my own love problems, I realise. I know nothing about Priscilla's – or if she even has any.

She shrugs, her smile dimming. "I had a boyfriend back in New Zealand. We met at university and were together for whole four years. But when I decided to move here, he didn't want to come with me." She shrugs again. "So we broke up." For the first time, I see her turn away to hide her face. "It must have not meant too much to him."

"Shit." I reach across to touch her arm lightly. "Pris, I'm so sorry."

"Nah," she says, a wobble in her voice. "It's no big deal. We wanted different things in life. It wouldn't have made sense to drag things out."

I stay silent, not knowing what to say. I'm not good with words of consolation.

"Besides," Priscilla continues, "the time difference between Finland and New Zealand is eleven hours! That's almost half a day." She lets out a scoff. "We never would've been able to find the time to talk, ever."

I look at the hair falling over her face and say, lamely, "That really sucks."

"But you know what sucks more?" Priscilla's voice is trembling harder now, but it also sounds flinty. "That he wouldn't even try."

"Yeah," I say softly. I remember how, years ago, after we'd left Edinburgh, Aksel had called and told me he wanted to try being together. And I remember how, just a month ago, he had texted me and said he didn't anymore. "I know. That's the worst part. When someone doesn't even try."

Priscilla doesn't say anything else, and I look away to give her some privacy.

"But you know," I say, focusing on a smudge on her table cloth, "he's not the one for you. If he were, he would have tried his best, no matter how many oceans separate you. There's someone else – or a few someones – out there who will always want to try, who will always fight to be with you. And that's the person who's worth it."

"Wow."

I let out an awkward chuckle. "Yeah, well." That must have been the longest speech on love and relationships I have made in a long time. Maybe even forever.

"Emi," says Priscilla, an awed breathiness in her voice. "That was amazing."

"All right, all right." I'm mumbling now, my face growing hot. "Don't sound so surprised."

"Not surprised," she says, laughing now. I sneak a look at her and am relieved to notice that her eyes, although a little red in the irises, are completely dry. "But you have to admit, that was a pretty romantic speech."

I shrug. "It's true."

"Hm." There is a faraway look in her eyes now. Her half-eaten sandwich lies on her plate, forgotten. "I reckon." Then she notices that I'm desperately trying to hold back a smile. "What?"

"Sorry," I say, "I know we're having a moment and everything, but you sound so... Kiwi when you say that."

She looks confused for a moment. "Say what? 'I reckon'?"

I put my face into my hands to hide my full-on grin. "Yeah. I've never heard anyone say that before."

Priscilla laughs. Her previous vulnerability seems to have evaporated. For the first time, I wonder if there are deeper, darker wounds in her that she keeps tightly bound up. Before today, I never would've guessed that she was nursing a broken heart.

"We say it all the time back home," she tells me. "And a lot of other words that you'd probably find ridiculous."

"I've never heard you say anything I didn't understand, though."

"Yeah," she says, "I try not to use any New Zealand slang when I speak with people who're not from there." She gives it a moment's thought, and adds, "Or Aussie. They understand us pretty well."

I sit up straighter. "Tell me! What slang words do you have in New Zealand?" Before she can reply, I plow on, inspired by my own excitement, "I love regional language differences. Did you know there are different ways to say 'bread roll' in German, depending on where you're from?"

"That's so cute!" Priscilla has returned to her sandwich, but her eyes are wide with interest. "How do you say it?"

"Well, it's mostly called Brötchen. That's what we call it where I'm from. Sometimes we also say Rundstück. Or Schrippe. They call it that in Berlin, too. Other regions call it different things – like in the Southern regions, it's called Semmel or Weck, I think."

"Oh, I love that!" Priscilla is beaming.

"What about Kiwi English? I want to know. How different is it from, I don't know, British English, for instance?"

"I'm not sure about British English," she says slowly, "but we speak a lot like the Aussies. I mean, we're neighbours for a reason. We call McDonald's Macca's, for example. The first time I tried saying that here, everyone looked at me like I was crazy."

"Macca's," I repeat. Then I laugh. "I've never heard that, ever."

"It does sound strange, doesn't it?" Priscilla giggles. "I've never realised how strange New Zealand slang can be to other people until I came here."

"You need to teach me some of it," I say. "I'm going to go around confusing people."

"Only if you teach me some German," she says. "I've always wanted to learn some German."

"Deal."

We shake on it, grinning at each other.

"Okay," says Priscilla, looking at the remainder of her sandwich. She places it back down, arranging it neatly on her plate. "And now, time to go learn some Finnish."