I wish I hadn't found out. It's haunting me now – this thought of Lumi and Aksel being so much better suited for each other. How much more sense it would make for them to be together.

They're both Finnish. They both went to uni in the same place. They both ended up moving to the capital city after graduation. Their paths in life have intersected so much more. They have so much more in common with each other, more than I do with Aksel.

We don't talk much that week. It's easy, because Aksel also seems preoccupied. I get home later than he does on the weekdays, so we don't have dinner together anymore. By the time I get home, he's usually parked in front of the television, staring sullenly at it. I'm not sure if he's even aware of what is going on on-screen sometimes. But he doesn't say anything to me, and I don't say anything to him.

On Friday night, I am almost expecting him to go out on his own, to meet his friends for his weekly ritual with them. But he is home when I let myself in at a little past nine at night.

The TV is not on today. He is sitting on the sofa, and he is staring at me.

"Oh," I say. "I didn't know you'd be home." I take a particularly long while to drop my keys on the chest of drawers in the corner of the room, so that I don't have to look at him and face that stare.

"Where were you?"

I head into the kitchen to throw the plastic wrapping of the sandwich I had on my way home into the trash, and he follows me in. "The usual," I say, still not looking at him. "I went for class, then grabbed a sandwich on my way back. Why?"

Aksel pauses, as if weighing his next words. A prickle manifests itself near the back of my neck. What he's about to say next – I'm sure I don't want to hear it.

"You know what?" I say. "It's late; it's been a long day. Let's go to bed."

He grabs me by the wrists as I walk past. "Emilie."

"If you won't come with me, I'll go on my own. I'm tired." I jerk out of his hold, and turn to go.

I get to the doorway before I hear him say, "The uni called me today."

"What?" I have no idea what he is talking about.

"The university called me today. You haven't been to class the whole week, and they called to ask if you wanted to discuss options for replacement lessons."

I feel something dangerous bubbling up in my chest.

"Why the fuck would they call you? Are you my guardian, or what?" Am I a child, to be tattled on and reprimanded for truancy?

"They didn't have your number. They had my details from when we registered for the class." What he means is, when he registered on my behalf. When he paid for the course on my behalf.

I don't say anything.

"Emilie."

"Okay, fine!" I throw up my hands, and turn to look at him. "I didn't go this whole week. I just pretended I went."

I had taken great care to stay out all day, too, returning home only when I knew the class had ended. Aksel had been none the wiser. Until this stupid phone call.

"Why?" Aksel is frowning at me through the bewildered expression on his face. "Why did you have to pretend?"

I shrug. I look away.

He strides up to me; grasps me by the shoulders. His hold is firm, his fingers digging into my skin a little, and I know he is controlling himself. He probably wants to shake me until my teeth rattle in my head. "Emilie, we are going to talk about this."

"Why?" I try to twist away, but he doesn't let go. "I don't want to talk."

He pushes his face into my line of sight, so that I have to look into his eyes. "This won't go away on its own, even if you try to pretend it doesn't exist."

"There's nothing to talk about," I say. I want to look away, but he keeps staring into my eyes, pinning me in place with his gaze. My neck starts to freeze up. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to tell me why you skipped class for a week, and pretended you went every single day. I want you to stop avoiding me. I want you to tell me what's wrong."

"What's right?" I demand, the tears springing to my eyes so suddenly, even I am surprised. "Everything is wrong. What is there that is going right?"

I have shocked him. His grip on me loosens. He stares at me, lips slightly parted, not saying anything.

"I didn't go because I didn't want to go, okay? I hate the fucking class!"

It takes him a minute to digest my outburst. I see him swallow. "Okay," he says. "Why? Is it too difficult for you? Do you want to try another school?"

I shake my head.

"Emilie," he says, "We won't find a way to solve the problem if you don't talk about it."

"The problem can't be solved! Things aren't as simple as that."

"Any problem can be solved."

I snort rudely. "Not all problems have a straightforward solution. And it's my problem, okay? You can't do anything about it. You can't snap your fingers and make all of this magically go away. Life doesn't work like that."

He is getting frustrated with me. "And it doesn't work when you keep avoiding it."

"You think talking will solve anything?"

"I think if you talk to me about it, I can try to help. I want to know what you're thinking."

"Do you?" I'm almost sneering now..

"Yes." He is watching me, determined blue eyes trained on my face. "Tell me."

I shake off his touch, and start to pace.

"I'm tired." The words come out before I can think them through. I should have stopped there, but I don't. Maybe I'm tired of holding all these thoughts back as well. "I'm tired of all these Finnish things. I hate the class. I don't want to go to class anymore, because I hate it. I don't want to learn this fucking language."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aksel still.

There is a long silence.

"Oh," he says finally, the word not louder than a soft exhalation. The sound of hurt.

Now that I've started, I want to say it all. My mouth seems to have disconnected from my brain, and every rampant thought, every bitter thought I have harboured in the darkness of the nights past, come spilling out. "I don't fit in here at all. I will never fit in here. At least in Germany, people know I'm German the moment I start speaking. Here, I'm not only a foreigner, but nobody ever thinks I'm German. They only see the Asian part of me. And I'm sick of it."

By now, I am gripping the counter so hard that my fingers have started to hurt. "And the stares. People over here stare so much. I know we look stupid together. We don't look like we match at all. I hate that, too. It makes me wish I look different, or that I was Finnish or something, so I'd look normal walking next to you."

"Normal," he repeats now, in a way that sounds like the word has left a bitter taste in his mouth. His voice is hoarse, even though he hasn't said a single word otherwise.

"And the class." I take a deep breath, then let it out all at once. "I hate that fucking class. I hate the people there. They're all so nice, so friendly, but only to each other. I'm completely left out. And I know they think I'm stupid, because i just don't get it. I don't get this fucking language. The teacher has to slow down the pace of the lesson just for me, and I know they all probably hate me for that. They're being forced to go over things that they already know, just because I can't grasp basic Finnish grammar."

Aksel has gone back to being mute. He is staring at the ground now, not looking at me. The stiffness of his posture tells me that he is listening to every word I'm saying, and hating it.

I should stop. I know I should. But it's become a train wreck waiting to happen. I can no longer control anything I'm saying. I just want to spit it all out. Get it out of my system. So that it will all stop hurting me, and hurt him instead.

"I hate it. I hate the cold. I hate all of this."

I hear Aksel take a deep, shaky breath. "Okay," he says. Like he's trying to come to terms with everything I've just spewed out, all over the kitchen floor.

"I'm so tired." My voice is wobbling now. "God, I'm so tired. I'm tired of trying and failing. Everything sucks, and it feels like it's never getting better. If I don't have to, I don't even want to go out anymore, because at least when I stay indoors, I can pretend I'm not in this country."

Then I bite my tongue, because I regret that statement the moment I've said it. I regret all of it.

A pause, as the both of us stand frozen where we are.

"Okay," Aksel repeats, almost absently this time, like he has retreated completely into his thoughts. I turn to look at him, but he has his head angled away from me. He stays hunched over for another one, two seconds, then abruptly straightens and walks out of the kitchen area.

I stay where I am, listening to the sound of his footfalls. Moments later, the front door clicks shut.

He is gone.

Well – that was what he wanted, wasn't it? Me to open up to him.

I've opened up. I've told him exactly how I feel. He ought to be happy.

But even as I tell myself that, there is a festering that has begun deep in my throat. My eyes feel hot. My fingers are trembling. I've made a mistake. I've gone about it all wrong. I should have put all of it in a more diplomatic manner. I shouldn't have let it all come out in an unchecked verbal diarrhoea like that. I should've written it all out and looked it over, before saying it all to him.

Anything. Anything would've been better than this.

I've hurt Aksel so, so much.

It's not his fault, I know. He can't help it that I'm the way I feel. But he is the one person I come into close contact with every day, and it is easy to take my frustrations out on him.

And – a darker part of me admits – I wanted to hurt him, because I am envious of him. He is Finnish. He fits in perfectly here, in a way that I don't. That I can't. And it kills me every day, to see him so at ease with his surroundings here – so different from me. So far away, even though he's standing right next to me. So much of what I wish I could be like.

I am not Finnish. I can never be Finnish. And I am sick of it, sick of trying to fit in, to pretend I belong. What is the point? I will never look like I belong here. I will never look like I belong with Aksel. Not in the way girls like Lumi do, by simply walking next to him. Or it doesn't even have to be her. Any Finnish girl would look more like she belonged by his side than I do.

I am sick of feeling so different all the time. So out of the loop. Like the whole country is in on a joke that I have no hope of ever fully understanding.

But still. I shouldn't have poured it all out to him like that. Especially not using those words. Hate, hate, hate. There are so many other ways I could have phrased it, and I chose the word hate.

There are some things you don't say.

How am I any better than the racists and xenophobic people I've met over the years – people who think I don't have the right to be somewhere just because of the impurity of the blood running through my veins?

I sink to my knees in the middle of the kitchen, my breath coming out as a strangled noise in my throat.

***

I'm not good at apologies. Mainly because I haven't had much experience – I tend to avoid them. I don't usually like to admit I'm in the wrong, even if I am. I'm the type of person to wait for something to blow over, and then pretend it never happened. And the people in my life usually go along with it.

Aksel normally does.

But not this time.

And I know I should have apologised. I had made my mind up to do it, too. I waited in our room, watching the big red numbers change on the digital clock on the bedside table.

But he hadn't come home, and I fell asleep somewhere in between the blinking numbers of 00:09 to 08:24, when I suddenly jerked awake to see the sunlight streaming in – in spite of the curtains.

I'd sat up then, rubbing my arms to warm myself up before I'd realised what was wrong. The duvet had fallen onto the floor – that was why I was so cold. And I'd known, even without turning to look at his made-up side of the bed, that Aksel hadn't been home all night.

Because Aksel would have pulled the duvet up over me before going to bed himself. And he would have turned up the heater before leaving for work. These are the type of things he does for me.

This is Aksel, I told myself then. I need to apologise.

It's this thought that makes me pick up my mobile phone as I sit on the floor, staring at the door that hasn't opened in the past couple hours, on Saturday morning. His name is one of the first in my contact's list – Aksel. I don't even have to scroll down to get to it.

When I press the call symbol beside his name, my thumb is trembling.

The phone rings.

Keeps ringing.

Maybe he won't pick up.

Maybe I should hang up.

And then a click, and his familiar voice. "Hi." Except he sounds tired. Defeated.

"Hey," I whisper.

I don't know what else to say. He doesn't say anything either, even though he stays on the line. I can hear the soft sounds of his breathing as he waits – for what, I don't know. Maybe for me to say something.

"It's me," I try, just to break the silence.

"Yes," he says, "I know."

I frown and look down. Of course he does. He would've seen my name on the display of his phone before he picked up.

I clear my throat so that there is a semblance of normalcy to my voice. "How are you?"

I seem to have stunned him into momentary silence with my inane question. When he replies, it's several beats later, and his tone is flat. "I'm fine."

I wait for him to return the question, but he doesn't. "Ehm... You didn't come home last night," I say.

"I know."

Any guilt I've been feeling warps into belligerence in this instant. He doesn't even sound apologetic. I have to bite my lip to keep from saying something else I'll regret.

I swallow. "Okay. When are you coming home, then?"

A pause. When he next speaks, he sounds remote, like he has already detached himself from the conversation. "I don't know."

"Fine," I say, finally. All of a sudden, hot tears are stinging my eyes.

I hate this stupid, stilted conversation. I hate the way he is acting. What's wrong with him? He's supposed to care more than this. He's supposed to apologise for storming out yesterday, for staying out all night. I don't even know where he is – he could be with Lumi, for all I know.

"Fine," I repeat, with more emphasis. The tears spill over, but I screw up my face mutinously. "Don't come home, whatever. I don't care."

On the other end, I hear him take a deep breath, like he is trying to control his temper.

And then the line goes dead.

I stupidly continue holding my phone up to my ear for a long moment. I can't hear anything else. I lower the phone to stare down at it.

My home screen blinks innocuously back at me.

Gripping my phone tightly in a sudden fit of anger, I am about to sling it against the wall before I lower my arm.

No. I need my phone. I'm broke enough as it is – I can't afford to buy a new one if I wreck this one. And it's not like I can borrow any more money from Aksel – at the rate things are going, he's going to demand I move out soon.

Now the tears are filling my eyes.

He hung up on me.

He doesn't care anymore.

I place the phone on the floor by my knee gently. Almost reverently. As if it were a symbol of what is left between us; as if, by doing so, I can salvage something that already seems broken beyond repair.

***

Aksel comes home eventually, later in the day. He finds me curled up on the floor, drifting between sleep and consciousness, my face still sticky with the remnants of tears.

I watch him through half-open eyelids from my position on the ground. He stands in the open doorway for a moment, just staring at me. I close my eyes and bury my face into the crook of my arm.

I hear the door close, and then his footsteps. He walks right past me, presumably towards the bedroom, before he stops.

I hear him sigh audibly. More footsteps, this time coming back towards me. Then his hands closing around my biceps, as he hauls me up into his arms.

The tears are leaking out my eyes again. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my cheek against his. His stubble rubs against my skin – it's a comforting feeling. "I'm sorry," I whisper, the apology I meant to give over the phone, too late. My voice is hoarse; my breath comes out in a choked little gasp.

He doesn't say anything. He bends to lift me fully, the back of my knees pressing against his forearm, my legs dangling as he carries me into the bedroom. Once there, he places me on the bed, then turns away.

I move to grasp his arm, but he is already too far out of reach. "Aksel," I croak.

He pauses in the doorway, back-facing me. He doesn't turn around.

I'm sorry, I mouth the words again, but this time, no sound comes out.

A moment later, he walks out of the room. I sit in the silence, straining my ears. Is he going out again?

I hear the television in the living area turn on, and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. At least he's still in the apartment.

At least he hasn't completely left.

***

We barely speak in the days to come. It can be so easy to live with someone without really living with them. Without really interacting at all. I've always heard about couples who end up like that. But I never expected it to happen with me and Aksel.

The moment that fully brings home how far we've drifted apart is the one evening when we both run into each other in the kitchen. We've been living such separate lives, even by then, that each of us freezes for a moment at the sight of the other. Then Aksel turns back to his dinner preparations without a word. It takes me a moment more before I manage to unglue my feet from the ground and move in to start on my own dinner preparations.

It feels like that time in Edinburgh – the awkward run-in in the pantry after we'd first slept together, except this is worse. This time, we are not even speaking.

Is this what our relationship has deteriorated into? Strangers living under the same roof. Aksel and I were supposed to be the exception. Most flings end when it's time to go home, but ours hadn't. So many long-distance relationships fail during the first few months apart, but ours hadn't. Even more transnational relationships end because of overwhelming cultural differences, but we'd managed to hold onto each other all of this time.

But maybe we're not the exception, after all. Maybe we're the rule.

Maybe everything that I thought was special between us, was just us kidding ourselves. Maybe it's all this is – one long-overdue fling.

Maybe that is the reality of transnational relationships. Maybe it's impossible to overcome the glaring differences. Maybe people are meant to stay in the countries they grew up in. Maybe people are meant to stay with the people from the same countries they are from.

And maybe if my parents had stayed where they were supposed to be, I wouldn't be here right now, struggling through something like this.

I whirl around to look at Aksel. He must have not been expecting me to do that, because I catch him mid-glance. He is also looking at me.

I give up all pretence of food preparation. "Are we not going to talk anymore?" I ask shakily.

Aksel doesn't turn back to make eye-contact, but I see his hands still.

"Aksel... Please. I'm really sorry. I am." I want to go over to hug him, but if he turned away, I wouldn't be able to survive it. So I stand uselessly rooted to my side of the kitchen, just watching him. Waiting for him to acknowledge me.

Wordlessly, he goes back to stirring the sauce he's making, the spoon clattering angrily against the sides of the bowl.

I, too, turn back to my food, blinking hard to keep the tears from falling. After a long beat, though, I can't keep it in anymore. "You're not going to forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," Aksel says. "You told me the truth about what you think of the Finns. That was what I deserved, wasn't it?"

"No," I whisper. When he doesn't say anything else, I swipe a hand over my eyes. "I want us to talk. I want things to be fine between us again."

The clattering stops. I look back to see that Aksel is halfway out of the kitchen, like he can't stand to be in the same room as me for a prolonged period of time.

He's looking back at me. "Emilie," he says flatly, "I don't know if we have anything left to talk about."