I started writing a long letter describing in much detail my feelings for you, but I deleted it again. I’ve never been very good with words anyway. I love you, N., that’s all there is to it. I’ve fallen head over heels, stupidly in love with you. And I can’t tell you. What would be the point? You’ve got him now. I know. I love you just the same, though. Can’t help it, I’m afraid.
Still, I suppose we’ll always have Prague.