The story of Senni and me is central to understanding my journey during those years. Our relationship was complicated — a mixture of kindness, hope, confusion, and, eventually, pain. It shaped how I saw myself and how I trusted others, even years later in my life.
When we first started studying together, I quickly noticed Senni was somewhat apart from the group. She didn’t fully join us. Not because anyone pushed her away, but because she seemed hesitant to step inside. She looked a little sad and distant. I thought that maybe it was because she was a little younger than most of us, living away from her parental home for the first time, and maybe didn’t have the courage or know-how to come closer to the others.
From the very start, I felt drawn to her but not because of any romantic feelings, but because of her kindness and that vulnerable edge she carried. I remember one time, in the first few weeks or days of studies, we had to stand in front of the whole class and tell about ourselves. For me, that was sheer agony. But at some point, I remember looking at her, and she looked at me in such a kind and encouraging way — like she was silently telling me, "You’re okay." That tiny moment of kindness left a mark. It made me feel a little better.
We started to get to know each other. She was nice and a little strange, which made her interesting. I wanted to see what she was about. And she seemed to actually like me. She seemed to want to spend time with me. So, not right away, but over time, we became friends, and I really did care for her as a friend, and I really did appreciate her friendship.
We started spending a lot of time together, and we started sitting almost always next to each other in class. Almost every pair or group work we did together. We grew closer over time, and we spent so much time together, we even sometimes slept next to each other. I had the need to be close to someone, and I think that so did she, because she had a long-term boyfriend she eventually left after about a year in our studies, so I guess she wasn’t used to sleeping alone and couldn’t right away get used to it.
Eventually, feelings beyond friendship developed on my side. I’m a lesbian — or bi, as I thought then. Let me be clear, it didn’t happen right away. Senni was not someone I initially found romantically attractive. In fact, at first, she was the last person I expected to have feelings for. But her kindness and strangeness made her interesting, and the closeness between us grew naturally.
At the same time I was struggling with being included in the group, I started noticing that in faculty parties my classmates would include me whenever Senni was there with me. They would treat me overall well whenever Senni was around. Like my value somehow rose whenever she was standing next to me.
At some point, my feelings towards Senni grew so big that I had to tell her about them. It was at the end of summer break. She was coming from her hometown back to Oulu, and before that, I had told her about my feelings via text message. We hadn’t seen each other for a few months. There was a faculty party coming up the night she arrived back in town, and we had decided to go there together. I was scared as hell to meet her after my revelation. I was afraid of what she would think about me. We met in a pub before the party. I was literally almost shaking. But when she arrived, she seemed normal. I can’t remember if we talked about my feelings in the pub or not before going to the party.
A little while later, we went to the faculty party. We were at the party for some time. I remember that at one point, we were standing outside the party place, and she suddenly started leaning in to me. I told her to be careful not to fall down because she was drunk. And she said, "That’s not why I’m leaning against you."
That same night later on, we went to a pizzeria, and while waiting for our pizza, she suddenly gave me this look and laid her head on my chest. I wasn’t sure what she meant. I was afraid that maybe she was making fun of me. Maybe she was just bi-curious. I was afraid to get hurt. So I did nothing — just held her. But from that night on, we started spending much more time together.
We began sleeping next to each other several times a week. There were glances, touches, a closeness that hovered just beneath the surface but nothing that crossed a line. She never tried to kiss me, nor did I her. I had never been in a real relationship with a woman before. There had been moments — brief flickers of connection — but nothing lasting. And I had been hurt before: mocked, even bullied, because of my sexuality. I was still in the closet, as they say. I didn’t want people to know. I had learned that openness could invite cruelty, and I feared exposure might lead to humiliation again.
And to tell the truth, I wasn’t sure if I was just imagining things. I knew the events were real, but I questioned their meaning. Was I misreading the signs? Was she simply trying to be a friend, in a way I had never known friendship before? Did she even know what it meant?
I have been trying to make sense of this all for a long time, because at the same time, there was something else — something was off. The painful truth is, our relationship was not equal.
I was open, curious, and invested. I asked about her life, tried to understand her, made space for her feelings. But she rarely asked about me about my family, my friends, or my inner world. That emotional gap — where I gave and she took — hurt deeply. It was subtle, but it was there.
Sometimes she made demeaning comments — not directly, but hidden in side remarks. I was left confused, sometimes doubting myself. The gestures of closeness — sleeping next to each other, leaning in, resting her head on my chest — they weren’t illusions, but I had to interpret them alone. That was both thrilling and devastating.
For someone like me, who had already been hurt and silenced for being gay, this ambiguity was terrifying. It echoed old wounds — shame, fear, betrayal — and amplified them. I was scared of being humiliated again or of being used for emotional closeness without true mutuality.
I want to be clear: I have never tried to idealize her. And I’m not trying to paint myself as a victim or her as a villain. The relationship between me and Senni wasn’t easy or simple. It was nuanced, complicated, for me, unclear.
I wasn’t imagining the closeness between us. But in a situation where I felt like an outsider in our class, the intimacy between us became really important to me. It wasn’t just affection — it was refuge.
But it was also confusing, because I didn’t know what it meant to her. Maybe even she didn’t know. And when you already live in a world where people twist your identity into something to ridicule or erase, not knowing someone’s intentions isn’t just frustrating. It’s threatening. I needed clarity, safety, and some sign that she wasn’t just experimenting with my feelings or using my company to fill a void.
I had come out to her, revealed my feelings. None of it was easy, especially while being in a class where my whole identity had already been questioned.
When she responded with kindness, when she leaned in, when she rested her head on my chest — I let myself hope.
That was brave from me.
But it’s also the moment where uncertainty started to eat away at the clarity I needed. Because she didn’t say what she wanted. She didn’t kiss me. I didn’t kiss her. She gave me signals, but not words.
Senni might have meant well. She might have been confused. She might have even felt something. But what’s clear is that she didn’t protect my heart the way I was trying to protect hers.
And that hurts.
Because in a space where I was already trying to survive racism, she was the one place I could rest.
Until I couldn’t.
It would be easy for someone from the outside to dismiss this as “unrequited love” or emotional confusion. But they’d be wrong. Because what I was searching for was much deeper than that — it was about dignity in connection. I wasn’t just looking for love. I was looking for someone who would see me as I am, choose me, and not flinch in front of my full identity.
And for a while, Senni almost did.
But “almost” isn’t enough when your whole identity is on the line.