He's gone the next morning before I wake up. I notice that he has tucked the covers more tightly around me and turned up the heat in the room, but he didn't wake me up. I lie in bed for a long moment, feeling the tears flood my eyes again.

It's the first time since I've come to Helsinki that he's left without even a goodbye kiss. I know this sounds stupid, but it's tradition. It's our tradition.

Being from different cultures – different countries – we don't share many traditions. But this was supposed to be one of the few things we share.

I sit up in bed, slowly pushing the covers away from my body. My sluggish actions mirror my state of mind. Another day alone in Helsinki. What am I supposed to do today?

I look around the room, and my gaze falls on the mess of books scattered across the desk in front of the computer monitor. Out of the blue, I feel a gag reflex coming on. I turn away.

I'm sick of it. Sick of sitting in here, trying to cram all of this knowledge about Finland and Finnish vocabulary into my head.

I can't do it anymore. I need to get out, or I'm going to go crazy in this apartment, surrounded by all these Finnish books. These books that I hate.

I get washed up and dressed in record time, then yank open the door, trample down the stairs, and plunge out of the building for the first time in a week. The wind is the first thing that hits my senses with a vengeance. This is what you get, it seems to be crowing, slapping at my cheeks. This is what you get, when you hide away for so long.

A whole week indoors and I've almost forgotten how cold Helsinki is. I almost turn back to retreat into the warmth again, but I force myself to go on.

I walk briskly down the street, head bent, trying to avoid looking at my surroundings. I can feel the tears creeping back into my eyes.

Everything outside is so Finnish. Finnish people, Finnish signs, Finnish shops... Finnish everywhere. I can't escape it.

I continue to trudge on, not entirely aware of where I'm going. I don't bother looking at the street names – how are they going to help me? I don't understand them, and they all look too alike. I'm starting to get a headache from it all.

I wonder, briefly, nonsensically: if I walk for long enough in the same direction, could I walk straight out of Finland? And then I laugh at myself, because there are only two places to go, on foot, from Helsinki. Russia or the sea.

Sighing to myself, I stop walking. And then I look up for the first up, steeling myself against the sight of the unintelligible words that I'm sure to see.

As expected, I have no idea where I am. Nor do I know what the shops and signs around me say. I recognise a bank, a book store – and that's it. There are flyers stuck on a lamppost that I cannot decipher. There is some graffiti on a low wall in the distance that I don't understand. I close my eyes briefly, as if that can help me escape this nightmare. Then I open my eyes and turn in a circle to observe my surroundings.

It doesn't matter where I am. I'll just find a café – a place to sit, to spend the rest of the day. I can probably point at the pastry I want to order in the glass display. Even I can handle that.

There is a shop to my right that looks nothing like a café. I almost pass right over it, but something in me makes me look up. My gaze zooms in on one of the words on the sign over the entrance.

Apteekki.

It's the word. If I squint a little, I can make believe that the sign is saying Apotheke. The word feels almost like an old buddy.

On a whim, I turn and head for the store. I'm suddenly desperate to know if this one Finnish word has the same meaning as its German lookalike.

My heart fills, the moment I step in and see the bottles and packages lining the shelves.

Apteekki is Apotheke. Apteekki is pharmacy.

"Do you speak English?" I ask the pharmacist in English, then barrel on without waiting for an answer. It's not like I can bust out a miraculous knowledge of Finnish even if she doesn't, right? "Do you have, I don't know, painkillers? For headaches or such things."

She stares at me for a moment, then reaches for something in the cabinet behind her. She hands it to me, "Like this?"

I look at the white box in my hand... I don't understand a word on it. But it looks familiar. It looks like something Aksel once gave me, back in Edinburgh, when I had been nursing a hangover in his room.

The word Paracetamol is printed somewhere amid all the other words I don't understand. This word is universal, Aksel had said back then, pointing it out to me.

I bite back my tears, give the pharmacist a short nod, and rummage in my bag to pay.

By the time I stumble back out into the freezing wind, I feel slightly better.

I'm still clutching the box of medication in my hand, holding it so tightly that I'm almost denting the cardboard. But it's something else that's familiar to me, in this land of foreignness. Even though the words printed on the box are gibberish, this box of tablets, in itself, feels familiar to me.

They remind me of a time, a far happier time. They remind me of Edinburgh.

Why didn't we move to Edinburgh instead? At least, over there, language wouldn't be a problem. Maybe there would still be this sense of displacement, but it wouldn't be this strong, this stark, in Edinburgh. I'm more familiar with Scottish culture. I've heard more about Scotland, growing up, than about Finland.

I trudge on down the street. The surroundings are starting to look familiar. I've been here. I've stumbled into the touristy area, where most of the city's greatest attractions are located within walking distance of each other. And then I come to a building I've been to before.

It is that same restaurant Aksel and I ate at that first week, when I had just arrived in Helsinki. When we had explored the city together, hand in hand. When I had been optimistic, full of hope for our future. When things had been new, exciting, and I had still thought moving to Finland would be an adventure.

I hesitate by the entrance. I'm looking for a café, I remind myself, not a restaurant that sells mostly Finnish food.

But this is the first restaurant I ever visited in Helsinki. And it was nice. I was happy. I want to feel that happiness again.

I find myself approaching the doorway. And then pushing the door; walking in.

I am greeted at the door, then led further in and shown a seat. I look at the menu, and I remember what Aksel said to me back then, that first time we came here. And I remember my answer to him back then.

But that was back then.

The waiter comes around, smiling at me in friendly greeting, but no matter how hard I try, I can't dredge up even the smallest quirk of my lips.

"Could I..." My voice trembles, and I have to stop for a moment to compose myself. "Could I have the Schnitzel, please?"

I'm waiting for my food when the sound of people speaking in a familiar language hits my ears. My gaze shoots up and my head swivels around to stare at the doorway, where a group of people - a family, from the looks of it - have just entered.

German tourists. I almost feel like crying. I stare at them unabashedly, listening in on their conversation. They're from the northern part of the country, too - I can tell from their accents. But it wouldn't have mattered if they had been from the south, or the east. It's enough that they're Germans. These are my people.

I will them to look over at me, craving a look of acknowledgement, of the camaraderie you get when you meet a fellow countryman abroad. They are shown to the table directly next to mine, and they do glance briefly at me, but there is no answering recognition in that glance.

I look back down at my table, listening to them settling into their seats, discussing what to order.

That's right. For a moment, I forgot.

I don't look German. Unless I say something in the language, no German is going to think I'm one of them, especially not when we're outside of Germany.

The overwhelming desire for tears returns, this time for another reason.

I could speak to them, let them know that there's someone here who identifies with them. But I'm not in the mood to speak up, to explain. So I hunch down in my seat, closing my eyes, just savouring the sound of the pockets of German conversation beside me.

People always mock the German language – they call it harsh, angry-sounding. I used to agree, but for the first time, I can hear the beauty in the language. Listening to the familiar words and cadences floating in the air with my eyes closed like this takes me back home. And for a moment, I can almost make believe that everything is back to how it used to be. That everything is fine again.

Almost.