It begins to get tedious. Navigating the streets, going about daily life – it all sounds simple, until you have to do it all in another language while following different customs.

One particular episode that stuck in my mind was my trip to the supermarket down the road. Instead of the S-Market that we usually go to, that I went with Lumi and Janne the first time, I popped into the smaller chain supermarket called Alepa that was closest to our apartment. It was much smaller than the S-Market, but I only needed to grab some food. It didn't make sense to go all the way to the big supermarket just for that.

Surprisingly, the supermarket wasn't as empty as I had thought it would be in the middle of the day. Other than a few people milling around, basket in hand, there was a short line at the cashier's.

All went well until I got to the cashier counter. I had only a few things in my basket – milk, some blueberry jam, a packet of ham, rye bread, and a cucumber for a quick sandwich. I smiled at the cashier as she chimed, "Moi." Then I focused on watching the digital screen at the counter, so that I would know how much to pay when she rattled off the total amount.

I was so busy watching the screen that it took me completely by surprise when the cashier said something. It took me a moment to realise she was speaking to me.

"Ehm..." I stared at her, my mouth open uselessly.

She repeated her statement, a long string of sounds that I couldn't even begin to decipher. Other people didn't speak like Aksel. They spoke as if speaking with a native.

"I'm sorry," I said in English. "I don't know..."

With a sigh of exasperation at my ineptitude, the cashier leaped out of her stool and raced deeper into the store. A furtive glance around told me that everyone else in the line was staring at me as they awaited her return. I could feel my ears getting warmer as a flush of embarrassment climbed up my face.

Not long later, the cashier returned, still holding the cucumber I had picked out. Except now, there was a printed sticker on it.

Right, I realised then, as the cashier finished up the transaction. I had forgotten to weigh it on the machine for the price tag. When it came to the payment, she gestured at the screen, not even bothering to say anything to me now that she knew I didn't understand.

I paid and pushed out of the store, making a mental note to never visit this Alepa again.

When I text Gabi and Tessa about it, they laugh at me good-naturedly.

Oh, come on, types Tessa. Haven't you done that once or twice back home as well?

That gives me pause. Because she's right. I just hadn't thought much of it back then, because it was Hamburg. It was home. If I didn't do something right over there, it was because I had forgotten, not because I didn't know I was supposed to.

It's different here, I try to explain. You should've seen everyone else in line. They were staring at me as if I was a zoo exhibit.

Forget about them, was Gabi's advice. Who cares what they think? They don't even know you.

Easy for them to say, I think privately, dropping the phone onto the bed, where it bounces once, twice. They would fit in perfectly here, the way they fit in perfectly in Hamburg. They would never understand what I'm going through now. Gabi isn't even from Hamburg. I was born there, but if you put us side by side, people are more likely to pick me out as the one who had moved to Hamburg at age 11.

The supermarket incident is not a big deal, I know. But it's just one on top of many other similar things. The truth is, I don't belong here, and everyone around can tell.

That's when I dig out my books about how to 'be more Finnish' – they now have their own corner on Aksel's computer desk – and start poring over them again. This time, I don't even bother hiding it from Aksel. What's the point? He has already seen them anyway.

He doesn't approve, I know. It's in the little furrow of his brow when he sees me hunched over the desk when he gets home, in the sardonic glint in his eyes as he leans against the edge of the table and watches me flip page after page.

"Why sit in here all day reading about Finland, when you're living in Finland?" he asks finally, flicking dismissively at the spine of one of the books that's emblazoned with the words: The Do's and Don'ts in Finnish Culture. "Go out and walk around. Talk to people. Won't you learn more this way?"

He doesn't understand. It's easier, safer, to sit here with my books. Outside...

I still don't know enough Finnish, or enough about the Finnish way of doing things, to trust myself not to make any more stupid mistakes out there.

But the more I read, the more I realise just how different the Finnish culture is from everything I am used to. Everything is so different. So foreign. And so, the more I read, the more afraid I am to leave the familiar comfort of the apartment. It's a vicious cycle.

"You don't understand," I mutter, biting my lip as I look down at the book spread out in front of me. He was born here. He grew up here. He knows everything there is to know about the language and the culture, even without trying to.

Aksel's hand comes down in front of me, covering the rows of words printed across the page. "No, I don't understand," he says, his voice sounding overly harsh in the silence. He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone is gentler. "Forget the stupid books. Ask me. I'll tell you what you want to know."

I purse my lips, disagreeing without words. I'm already relying so much on him in other areas. I need to do something on my own. Depending on him all the time is starting to make me feel useless and stupid.

"What are we having for dinner?" I ask instead.

Aksel stares at me a moment more before acknowledging my change in topic. "Is there anything you want?"

"I want..." A thought strikes me. "Teach me to cook something Finnish."

"Something Finnish," he repeats. He seems to think for a moment, then he smiles. "Okay."

Ten minutes later, I am sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter with my pen and notebook, watching Aksel lay out all the needed ingredients.

"It's a simple casserole," he says, "made from cabbage, minced beef..."

"You have a lot of casserole dishes in Finland," I comment, remembering the potato casserole I made for him as well. The one I hadn't known was a Christmas dish.

"Yeah, I suppose so," he says, sounding a little surprised, like he has never really thought about it.

"What is it called?"

He says a long Finnish word. Then again, all the Finnish words I've heard so far are long.

"How do you spell that?" I ask, my pen hovering over the top of the page. "With a K? A? How many A's...?"

He leans over me to take the pen from me, so that he can spell the name of the dish. As he writes, his chest pressing against my shoulders and his face close to mine, I turn my head to look at him. He is focused on writing, eyes narrowed in concentration as the tip of the pen scratches against the paper. I watch the bold strokes of his handwriting appear on my notebook, taking note of the amount of repeated consonants and vowels in the words...

I am never going to remember this.

How does he do it? How do Finns do it? How do their brains function, that they are able to understand the world through such a complicated and nonsensical language?

How different would my understanding of the world be, if I had been born with Finnish as my first language?

Would I be able to understand Aksel better than I do now?

I look at Aksel, at the side of his face visible to me, at the way he grips the pen as he writes, and I feel my heart fall inside of me. I want to understand him. I want to understand him as well as someone from his culture can.

Then he straightens, glancing at me questioningly. I tear my eyes away from him, and pick my pen back up. I hope he hasn't seen the look of painful longing I'm sure is on my face.

He goes to the other counter to start to make the casserole now, his hands moving deftly as he chops up and mixes the ingredients together. He's doing it all from memory. He's probably made this particular dish plenty of times. He's narrating, off-handedly, as he does it, reeling off measurements and instructions.

I want to help, but I think I'll only get in the way. So I stay in my seat. Even after he's put the dish into the oven, I stay hunched over my notebook, writing down what he's told me.

"Hey," he says lowly, coming over to wrap his arms loosely around my shoulders. "Relax. This isn't a lesson. You don't have to take so many notes."

I shrug him off, continuing to scribble in my notebook. I don't want him to see the expression on my face. Seeing him cook has only brought back how little I know about Finnish traditions, Finnish cuisine. "Yes, I do," I say. "How else am I going to remember the recipe?"

He stands back, but not before I hear him sigh.

Dinner is a silent affair, with the two of us both eating silently, each deep in our own thoughts. We finish at about the same time, but I remain seated, staring into my empty bowl. Aksel gets to his feet, stacking the dishes together. He whisks mine away from under my nose, then disappears into the kitchen.

I get up and pad into the kitchen after him, feeling uneasy for some reason. "I'll help with the washing up," I say, coming to stand beside him at the sink.

"No, it's okay," he says. "I'm almost done." He doesn't look at me.

I should take this as my cue to leave, but I remain there, watching as he soaps the dishes. "Dinner was nice," I say, almost shyly. "I really liked it. Thanks for cooking."

He finally turns to me. "You're welcome," he says, the frost in his eyes melting away at my words. "I like cooking for you."

Feeling strangely embarrassed, I duck my head. "I'll cook next time," I mumble to the floor. "It's my turn next." I can't let him do everything. I need to do something for him, too.

"Okay," he says quietly.

Leaving him in the kitchen alone, I retreat back to my desk. Maybe I need to invest in some cookbooks, I think to myself, as smooth my hands over the glossy textbook pages. Finnish cookbooks. Learn to cook some Finnish dishes. But he's Finnish. He grew up eating Finnish food all his life. He can cook Finnish food so well. Much better than I could learn to.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I should stick to my German dishes. Recipes I've learnt from the paternal side of my family. I know German food. I've grown up on German food, just as Aksel grew up on Finnish food.

But I'm meant to be integrating into Finnish culture. I'm not in Germany anymore.

I need to learn to be more Finnish.

After dinner, I go back to my books. This time, it's a textbook on Finnish terms in Chemistry. It makes sense to start with them, because they are words I'm going to need to know in my line of work. And this is the first step – learning bits of the language that will help me to get a job here.

I go at it for a while, scribbling the words over and over on a blank sheet of paper, as if that will help me to remember all these foreign words. My hand is starting to cramp, and every inch of the paper is covered with my scribbles, by the time Aksel walks in again.

He comes to stand by the desk, watching me for a moment, before he bends down. "It's late. Come to bed," he murmurs in my ear.

"After this," I promise, my eyes still glued to the page before me.

He doesn't relent. "You've been at it all day. Take a break. You can't learn a language in a day."

His words feel like a shard of glass that he has inadvertently pricked me with. I know that all too well. It's been over a month, and my Finnish is still complete and utter shit. I flatten my lips against each other, scowling at the page.

I look down at the piece of paper I've covered with words, reading the first three squashed into the leftmost margin.

Bunsenlamppu. Bentseeni. Suolahappo.

What do they mean? I don't remember.

I shove the textbook, and the paper, away. "Fine." I'm sick of it, anyway. Sick of studying. Sick of all these Finnish words that make no sense. I blink hard to keep the tears from surfacing, glaring defiantly at him. "Fine, then. Let's go to bed."

He takes a step forward and brushes my cheek with two outstretched fingers. "Emilie..." He looks like he's about to launch into another lecture, or at the very least another heart-to-heart. I don't need that. Not now. So I shove him backwards, until the back of his legs hit the bed and he has to sit down or push back at me to remain on his feet.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, pulling me with him. I fall into his lap, and he lifts my chin to kiss me. But for the first time, even as his mouth moves over mine, I feel nothing.

No, that's not true.

I feel fed up. Frustrated. Anxious. Panicked. I feel like a failure. How is it that, even after so long, I am still unable to grasp even the basics of this language?

What feels like all the darkest feelings in the world have come together to form a ball within me, a ball that is caught between my throat and my chest, that's preventing me from breathing properly. And for once, even Aksel's arms around me can't make these feelings fade away. For once, even if it's with Aksel, the one guy who can light a fire within me from just his gaze alone...

I'm not in the mood.

But I don't want to turn him down. I want to want to be with him.

I try to kiss him back, but even I can feel how lacklustre my response is. My mind is still bogged down with these tendrils of dread that are becoming all-too-familiar to me - studying Finnish always makes me feel this way. All these Finnish words and phrases are all so hard to understand, so hard to remember. This language hurts my head whenever I try to make sense of it. Just looking at it reminds me of how much more I still have to learn. How little I know. And that realisation has the power to sap all the strength right out of me.

But I need to learn Finnish. I've been freeloading off Aksel for so long now. I need to get to a decent fluency in the language, so that I can start earning money.

We're both on the bed now, and I'm staring up at the ceiling as Aksel kisses first my neck, then continues on a path that goes lower with every touch of his lips. My hands are clenched into fists by my sides as I try to push down the swell of panic rising in my throat.

I need to...

And then I realise that Aksel is now leaning over me, his chin propped up on one fist, looking down at me with a flat look in his eyes. "Done daydreaming?" he asks, his tone short and cold.

"I..." I stare at him, tongue-tied, caught completely off-guard. "I didn't think you would notice," I say stupidly, blurting out the first thing that comes into my mind.

Aksel lets out a laugh that isn't quite a laugh at all. "What kinds of guys did you sleep with before me? Are German guys that dense in bed?" He gets up and rolls away from me, turning his back squarely on me.

The panic engulfing me completely now, I scoot forward and place a hand on his back. "Aksel..."

He shifts further away, so that my hand is no longer touching him. "Go to sleep," he says brusquely.

I sit up, feeling ridiculously close to tears. "Aksel," I say, hearing my voice come out sounding very small in the otherwise silent room. "Please don't be angry with me."

Not even when I sniped at him last week had he turned his back on me in anger. Ever since I've landed in Helsinki, he has been unbelievably patient with me, catering to my every need, asking around for favours so that his friends would be here to help me when he can't, and in general putting up with all my mood swings. But he is finally, really, coldly angry now.

He doesn't respond to my last plea, just stays unmoving on his side, his back still to me.

I sit for a moment longer, waiting, but eventually the cold gets to me and I have to lie back down. I pull the covers up to my chin, blinking hard as the hot tears wash over my eyes.

I roll over onto my right, away from his side of the bed, feeling the emptiness against my back like the cold blade of a sword against my skin. We've always slept close together in the middle of the bed - most nights in each other's arms. The bed is large enough for us to each keep to our sides without touching, but we've never done that before. Maybe it's because we've gotten used to sleeping squeezed up against each other from the start - in Edinburgh, in my uni dorm room when he visited me in Hamburg - that we've always stuck to sleeping entwined together, sometimes almost on top of each other.

Tonight, he is right next to me, but I've never felt so far away from him as I do now, not even when he was living alone in Finland and I was back in Hamburg.

Because I am lying on my right side, the tears that escape my right eye slide out from the outer corner, while those from my left run down from the inner corner to trickle horizontally over the bridge of my nose.

Gravity, I think numbly, even as I struggle not to sniffle out loud. A concept so simple, so basic that even a young child knows what it is.

And I don't know the Finnish word for it.