I think they've forgotten I'm with them.

I trail along behind, bringing up the rear, listening to the group laugh and joke with each other. I can't follow their conversation at all. Especially not when they're speaking in Finnish, in such short, quick bursts, sprinkled with slang words and phrases that only locals – or people who have lived here for more than a while – would know. In other words, people who are not me. I can barely even understand basic, standard Finnish.

Aksel has been speaking in Finnish to me for the past day, as we have agreed to. But it's slightly easier to understand Aksel's speech, either because he dumbs down his language for me or I'm simply more used to his speech patterns. Now, listening to his conversation with his friends, I secretly suspect it's a mixture of both. I can only catch three of every seven words he's saying.

I'm starting to regret coming. It's obvious the invitation to the movies was extended only to Aksel. The others, especially Lumi, greeted me politely enough, but there was something in Aliisa's expression that made me feel like they hadn't been expecting me.

And Aksel himself seems to have forgotten me too. He is walking in the midst of his friends, listening to the conversation around him while adding his own rejoinder every once in a while. I'm lagging behind by two, three metres – far away enough that I can look as if I'm not part of their group at all.

As it is, the passersby on the street probably think I'm walking alone. And it's making me uncomfortable, because I find myself drawing more than the usual number of glances. The streets are not that crowded today, so I stand out more. Barely any of the passersby even glance Aksel and his group of friends, walking ahead and chatting among themselves. I, on the other hand, can already feel the burn of the stares that I'm getting through the simple act of existing.

I know I'm drawing attention because I look foreign. I'm not foreign enough to be labelled clearly as a tourist – not like the Asian tourists who come in large tour groups and snap all sorts of pictures on their huge cameras – but not local enough to be mistaken for someone who belongs here.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to shrink deeper into my winter coat. Walking here like this, trailing far behind Aksel and his group of friends, part of the group but not quite, makes me feel worse than I would have felt walking alone.

Aksel chooses this moment to turn around and I see the moment his gaze lands on me. He slows his footsteps, falling back from the group so that he can walk with me. "Hey," he says to me, reaching out to grasp my hand in his. "Are you okay?"

He's speaking to me in English, despite what he said yesterday. A little part of me is relieved. "Yeah." I nod towards the others, who are still walking ahead. Lumi has turned around to presumably check where Aksel went, but she turns back when she sees us together. "Shouldn't you be talking to your friends?"

He glances at them, then shrugs. "I'm talking to you now."

"I'm fine," I say uncomfortably, doubly conscious of the glances we're attracting. I suppose we do look a picture. He is so Finnish, so blond, so blue-eyed, while I am not.

"People are staring," I whisper, and tug my hand out of his. Couples in Helsinki, I've realised, are not very touchy-feely in public. Simply holding hands in public tends to draw stares from people. It doesn't help that I look the way I do. It's just that, now, instead of merely staring at me, Aksel is being stared at too.

I wonder what people who see us walking together think of me, and of him. Of us, together.

"Who cares?" Aksel asks softly, in response to my previous statement. He glances at my hand, then at his own. "You don't want to hold my hand anymore, just because people are staring?"

When I don't reply, he shoves his hand back into his pocket and looks away.

But even though we're no longer holding hands, or even walking that closely together, I still get more than the occasional glance from the people passing by us on the street.

It is almost unbearable.

The Unicorn Effect, perhaps. I remember Tatiana once calling it that, back in Edinburgh, when I had complained about getting stared at on the streets in Germany. It'd probably be worse in Finland, she'd said to me a little wryly.

And, two years on, I'm realising that she had been right. It is worse in Finland. I don't know what I was complaining about back then. In comparison, barely anyone in Hamburg notices me.

Aksel is still walking with me, slowing his strides to match mine. I should feel grateful, I know, but his presence only makes me feel all the more self-conscious. I wonder, all of a sudden, if this is how my Mama feels every time she walks alongside my Papa. If so, I have it better, don't I? At least I'm half-European.

Then I grimace, because I feel bad for thinking about Mama that way.

Still, I find myself thinking: it would be better if I were walking alone.

Then the guilt boils hot in my chest, because Aksel doesn't deserve thoughts like this. My eyes dart to the side as I chance a glance up at his face. He is staring straight ahead as he walks, something dark in his gaze. For some inexplicable reason, I want to reach out and grab his hand. But they're stuffed into the pockets of his coat, out of reach.

If only I hadn't let go just now. Or refused to answer when he had commented on it.

Taking a deep breath, I reach for him. When I get to the sleeve of his coat and he still hasn't reacted, I plunge my hand into his pocket and grab his hand.

He gaze flickers. He looks down at me, clearly surprised. But he slips his hand out of his pocket and adjusts his grip on mine.

I'm resolutely glaring at the ground, knowing that I probably just drew more attention to us.

Aksel squeezes my hand, then I hear him say, with laughter rimming his voice, "What happened to the people staring?"

"I'll gouge their eyes out," I mutter.

The laughter bursts out of him.

I look up and glare at him now, because I'm sure laughing out loud like that would've attracted even more stares.

We walk in silence for the remainder of the way, listening to the others chatting up front. At the entrance to the cinema, they finally slow down enough for us to catch up. Aliisa takes charge of buying the tickets, and then we all head to the snacks counter. Aksel glances at me questioningly, but I shake my head. The rest of them all end up getting something or another, except for Lumi, who sidles up close and whispers, "Gluttons, all of them."

I crack a smile, surprised at being acknowledged.

In the cinema, I end up seated at the very end, with Aksel to my left and the aisle to my right. Aksel places his popcorn in between us, so that I can reach it if I want some. But when I reach out with my left hand, it's not for the popcorn. It is for his hand.

He starts a little, but then his fingers curl around mine and he turns to smile at me. I've inconvenienced him, I know – he now has to reach over with his left hand for the popcorn placed on his right, but he doesn't let go of my hand. His thumb is rubbing little circles on my palm, and I feel the warmth from his hand go straight through my body.

Pretty soon, the lights dim and the film begins. And as soon as the actors begin to speak, I know it's a lost cause. Finns, I've come to realise, have the habit of speaking quite slowly – but even then, my Finnish listening skills aren't good enough to decipher all the words, or even thirty percent of them. Finnish is a language where a word's meaning can change drastically according to whether it is spelt with a consonant or two; without Finnish subtitles and a dictionary in hand, I am completely lost.

But I can understand the odd word or two of the Swedish subtitles, I realise, barely a few minutes into the film. I don't understand a word of the Finnish that the actors are speaking on-screen, but I can understand a little bit of the Swedish subtitles.

I almost laugh out loud right there in the cinema. I've been trying to learn Finnish for a month now, but I can still barely understand a word. Yet I understand more Swedish, despite never having been exposed to it. My understanding of the dialogue in the movie hinges entirely on subtitles that are in a language I have never learnt. All because Swedish is from the same language tree as my mother tongue.

What a joke.

If my hand hadn't been in Aksel's, I would've buried my face in my hands. As it is, I only tighten my grasp on his hand and close my eyes – and then I have to hurriedly open them again, because I wouldn't be able to understand a thing from the film otherwise.

At the end of the two hours, I emerge from the cinema with a pounding headache and only the vaguest of understandings of the going-ons in the film. Aksel was right when he said that you don't have to fully understand a film to be able to enjoy it. What he forgot, though, is that there needs to be at least a certain level of understanding before there can be any enjoyment.

I have not reached this level of understanding, not even by scrutinising every line of the Swedish subtitles. Besides, halfway through, my eyes had gotten tired and I had secretly nodded off. Now I look at Aksel to see if he had noticed, but he's busy talking to Janne beside him.

The movie seems to have been a brilliant one, because they are all chattering amongst themselves. I don't know what they're saying, any more than I understood the dialogue in the film. They're laughing while debating something, clustered together while I trail along behind.

Then Aksel turns around and sees me. And, just like the last time, he breaks away from the others to walk by my side. But, unlike the last time, I can tell that he wants to join in the conversation that the others are having. He's distracted, listening to their ongoing discussion, even as he turns to me, "So what did you think of the film?"

"I..." I consider, for the briefest of moments, lying to him. But that would be superfluous, since he would want to discuss the plot with me – something that I wouldn't be able to do. "I didn't understand most of it," I admit grudgingly, making a face to show how ridiculous I feel. "To be honest, I was trying to read the Swedish subtitles because they're easier to understand for me."

Aksel hesitates. "Oh."

I can tell I've disappointed him. He probably wanted to share his opinion on the film, but now I've spoilt it for him.

"I'll look up the synopsis when we get home," I say, because now I feel the rising shame in my cheeks. It would have been better if he had just come with his friends without me. He would be able to discuss it with them then, instead of having to cater to me.

"It's okay," he says. "I'll explain it to you." And he does.

But even as he's recounting the events in the film, I can tell it's useless. I realise, listening to him, that the reason I didn't understand it in the first place is because there are so many nuggets of cultural references and puns in the dialogue, I wouldn't have been able to understand them literally. I wonder how the puns had come across in the Swedish subtitles. Some things had probably been lost in translation.

I open my mouth to tell Aksel to forget it, that he's wasting his time, but then I see the glow on his face. He's gesturing as he speaks, as if the movements of his hands can help to build a better picture of the film in my mind.

He wants me to share in his appreciation of the film so badly that I don't have the heart to tell him it's an exercise in futility. So I just focus on the way his eyes light up as he recounts his favourite parts of the film, and smile.