"How are you feeling?" Aksel asks me, his eyes sweeping over my face, as if he's a machine scanning me for insecurities.

He has been doing this a lot since we've come back from Hamburg. I know he's worried about me, about our decision to stay in Helsinki, but it has been going on for a week now. It's like he doesn't really think I can do it and is just waiting for me to trip up again.

I feel the familiar guilt encircle my heart like a chain, and that makes me short with him. "I'm fine," I say irritably. "Stop asking."

He falls silent then. I glance at him and see that he's staring into the distance.

I suck in my bottom lip, feeling bad. It's not his fault – it's mine for being snappy. He is just looking out for me, the way he always does. And I'm being an ungrateful jerk.

I want to reach out and touch him – grab his hand, tell him I'm sorry. But I let my hand fall onto the table with a thud.

I can feel Aksel's gaze on me for a long moment. Then he pushes himself up, away from the table, snatching his empty bowl and mug off the table. I watch him walk into the kitchen.

Five minutes later, after I hear the faucet shut off but he still doesn't emerge, I get up and go in search of him. I find him hunched over the kitchen sink, his forearms leaning against the edge of the counter as he stares blankly down at the sink drain. He doesn't look up, even when I stop beside him.

I hesitate. He looks so distant.

But I eventually find the courage to slide a hand up the inner side of his arm, until my fingers are brushing his palm. He has his hands loosely clasped together, but at my touch, he pulls them apart so that my fingers can entwine with his. Then he closes the other hand over mine, too, sandwiching my hand between both of his.

He heaves a sigh in the direction of the sink.

"Sorry," I speak softly. "I didn't mean to snap."

"It's okay," he says, in a voice not any louder than mine.

I grip his hand tightly. "I'm fine, Aksel. You don't have to keep asking."

He nods, but I see the look on his face. I see the way he presses his lips together until his mouth is almost a thin line, like he's stopping himself from saying something.

"No, what?" I tug at his hand, wanting him to face me fully. Communication and compromise, Mama had said. I want to try to be better at that, too. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm just worried about you," he says.

"Don't be." I shrug. "I'm changing my mindset now, see? Things will be different this time."

He stares at me for a long time, then gives a short nod.

"Hey," I change the subject, leaning the side of my head against his upper arm to take his mind off it and onto me. "Why don't we go out somewhere?"

"Yeah?" He doesn't look at me, but I feel him playing with my hand, turning it over in his grasp. His touch is gentle, explorative. "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know." Then an idea strikes me. "Show me your favourite place in the city."

I can see the beginnings of a smile spreading across his face. I reach out with my free hand to touch the corners of his lips, feeling my own lips curve up in response.

He leans into my touch and kisses my fingers gently.

Aksel's favourite spot in the city is within walking distance of our apartment, tucked away near the pond just past a small park. He takes me there, to a bench that overlooks the pond, and we sit in silence for a while.

"Here?" I ask, after it becomes clear that he's not going to say anything.

"Yeah," he says. He's looking out over the pond, at the bare branches of the trees on the other side, as if he sees something I can't.

This is a lovely place, but I don't feel what Aksel seems to feel when he's here. I suppose that's understandable – places only have meaning when you associate them with your own experiences. And I've had none here.

"Why do you like it here?" I ask. "I mean, why is it your favourite place in the whole city?"

"I don't know." His hand finds mine on the bench. Instinctively, I look around to see if anyone is looking at us. It's Saturday, and while there is the odd passerby every now and then, this spot is too secluded. We won't attract any attention over here. I relax, curling my own fingers around his hand. He doesn't seem to notice; he's still speaking. "It's so relaxing here. It makes me feel calm."

I look out over the water too, trying to see what he sees. It is beautiful here, if you like this sort of thing. The trees are bare now, and the pond is frozen, but there is a sort of wintry beauty in all of it. But I have never liked winter all that much. Being here doesn't have the effect on me that it does on Aksel. Even amid all this nature, I feel jittery, not calm.

But I swallow my opinion. We sit for a while staring out at the frozen water, before the silence gets to be too much for me.

"What's your favourite season?"

He looks at me, surprised by my sudden question. He takes some time to answer. "Summer, probably."

It is my turn to stare, surprised, at him. "Summer?" I would have expected him to say winter. "But you can't stand high temperatures. You think fifteen degrees is too warm."

He shrugs. "Summer in Finland isn't all that warm."

Ah. It makes more sense now. "So you like Finnish summer."

"Must it be this specific?" He is watching me with a slight crease between his eyebrows. "I can't just say I like summer – it must be Finnish summer?"

I look away. "Well, Finnish summer is different from, say, summer in..." I can't say Germany. He'll know I'm comparing. "In Australia, for example."

"Isn't summer different everywhere? There are always slight differences in climate, at the very least."

I'm silent for a while, thinking this over. "I suppose so."

There is a pause, and then he begins, "Emilie..."

I don't want to hear what he has to say, so I interrupt him to ask, "What does that sign over there say?"

He pauses. Then he sighs and looks in the direction of what I'm staring hard at. It's a makeshift sign by the pond with bold Finnish words on it. "Don't walk on the ice," he translates.

"That," I say, swinging my legs a little absently, "sort of makes me want to do just that."

His grip tightens on mine so suddenly that I get a shock. "No," he says, in such an urgent tone that my gaze flies to his. "Don't do that. The ice there is thin – it will break."

I laugh. "I know. I'm not stupid." Even if he hadn't been here to explain the contents of the sign, I wouldn't have gone wandering onto the pond. Ponds as large as this one don't freeze completely, not even in this weather. It's plain common sense.

"I know you're not," he says softly.

But I do feel stupid here, sometimes. I feel stupid when I can't understand the simplest warning signs like this one. It makes me wish that language-learning is instant, that it doesn't require hard work or time. That I could just swallow a pill and miraculously know how to speak Finnish like a native. Or that I had grown up here, so I would have naturally picked up the language, just like I picked up German, growing up in Hamburg.

Because learning a language as an adult is a journey you will never be able to complete. I will never be able to say I am fluent in Finnish, simply because I never learnt it growing up. No matter how many years I spend learning Finnish, it's already too late. My brain will never adapt to it like it has adapted to German or even English. I will never be as good as a native speaker. And that's why I will never be seen as a local. The moment I open my mouth – heck, even before I open my mouth – I will be branded a foreigner. As someone who doesn't belong.

I close my eyes. Then I take a deep, measured breath.

I chose Helsinki, I remind myself. I chose to be here.

"It's beautiful," I say, looking out into the distance. I try for a smile, and pitch my voice a little higher, so that I sound cheery. "Thanks for bringing me here."

And it is beautiful. There's a certain charm to the place.

I think, with time, I can learn to feel the tranquility that Aksel obviously feels here. But when I turn to look at Aksel, I see him watching me with sombre blue eyes.

I look back away. "Don't look at me like that, Aksel."

I hear him sigh.

"Everything is going to be fine," I reassure him, and repeat it to myself for a good measure. "Everything will be fine."