I confess I am embarrassed to address you in English. It is neither yours nor my native language. And it is a language I do not master perfectly. What I have to say is quite easy, though. I love you, Narrator. Je t’aime. Ti amo.
I suspect I could hardly be your type. I am neither a Gilberte nor an Albertine. But I do not care, Narrator. My love for you is of the purest form. It is the perfect love that cannot be experienced anywhere but in our minds. It is the love for a man whose sensitivity I consider so affine to mine that when I read your words I can imagine having written them. The love for an image in the mirror. The love that makes us suffer every time we miss a lover and the promise of an impossible, perfect union. I miss you in every lover I have lost, my dear Narrator.